


A Fine Line

by ceremonial_motions



Category: Dragonlance - Margaret Weis & Tracy Hickman
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-29
Updated: 2018-09-30
Packaged: 2019-07-04 00:32:28
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 50,113
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15830091
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ceremonial_motions/pseuds/ceremonial_motions
Summary: What would happen if Raistlin had abandoned his plot to take the place of the Dark Queen? An unwelcome guest comes and spoils all of Raistlin's plans, and he is faced with the daunting task of giving his life a new direction.Canon through most of Time of the Twins. Spoilers for Chronicles, Legends, Summer Flame, and The War of the Souls Trilogy.





	1. Oleander

It was unusually warm for Yuletide. Istar baked and cracked like desert soil under the ominously bright sun, which no cloud seemed to ever obscure. Half the plants in the city had long since perished from exposure, their owners lamenting the unseasonable heat and the beginnings of a drought, and all the greenery had turned from healthy green to an ugly yellow in a matter of days.

All except the greenery in the garden of the temple.

Figures of priests and laymen alike lay in repose amongst the beautiful garden, cooler than most in the shade of the famous Temple of Istar. Yes, the weather may be unseasonable, but here in the shadow of the gods, life was still nearly pristine, their lives nearly untouched by the discomfort afforded by the turn in the climate. The flowers still bloomed, the fountains still dripped and flowed—the only eyesore to be seen was the dark form of the black-robed mage whom the Kingpriest insisted on keeping close at hand. He walked through the garden that day with an almost palpable aura of irritation surrounding him. Any who observed him could easily discern the source of this irritation—he was followed closely by a short, garishly dressed figure in rainbow stockings and a bright blue vest, whose middle was encircled with the telltale calling card of his race: kender pouches.

“Gee, it sure is hot out here now that you mention it, Raistlin,” the kender was chattering as he followed the black-robe towards the garden gate. “I can't imagine why I didn't notice it this morning.”

“Perhaps that is because you were too busy annoying me,” Raistlin replied. He led the kender firmly to the outskirts of the temple grounds, and gave him a shove into the street. “Now leave me be, kender,” the mage snapped, “and gods help you if you come back here before I have need of you.”

The kender in question did not seemed deterred in the slightest at the wizard's ire. “They probably would help me, Raistlin, all things considered,” he replied. “Paladine is a close, personal friend of mind, you know.” 

This remark caused several nearby clerics to glance at the kender sharply, but Tasslehoff paid them no heed. The garden surrounding the temple of Istar was especially crowded this day, it being the long-anticipated Yule celebration.“Well, Fizban is, anyway.” He continued. “And he seemed to take—”

“Enough,” Raistlin interrupted. “I have no time for this. As I told you, mind the date,” he drew closer to the kender and fairly hissed, “We are within weeks of the Cataclysm, and you must be ready for your task.”

The kender's eyes lit up, “Of course, Raistlin I'm re—”

“Good, now go,” he said, shoving the kender along much harder now, practically throwing him into the next street over, before he began to make his way back to the Temple of Istar. Raistlin only made it a few steps before he was forced to stop again, this time for Lady Crysania, who was walking down the garden path to meet him. He sighed inwardly, and braced himself for what he was sure would be another annoyance.

“Was that Tasslehoff?” Lady Crysania asked as she approached. Her hair was frizzy and disheveled with the heat, and her cheeks were flushed. She frowned as she looked after the kender. “Have you been cruel to him again?”

Raistlin followed Crysania's gaze. Tas had not moved far from the temple grounds. He was too busy wishing a “Merry Yuletide!” to everyone in the street to have made much in he way of progress. As he watched, he noticed the kender's deft hands relieving these same people of their coin purses. 

Raistlin snorted, “He is a nuisance. Like all kender.”

Lady Crysania's brows raised a fraction, “I thought you considered him somewhat of a friend? Having fought together in the War of the Lance.”

Raistlin scoffed and made to turn around, continue his way back into the Temple, “Not at all. We were companions in arms, nothing more. If you'll excuse me...”

“Raistlin, wait.”

He felt a timid touch on his forearm and reluctantly turned to face her. There was something in her appearance that made Raistlin uneasy. She wore her dark hair pulled back in a messy but becoming fashion, and her marble skin had bronzed somewhat in the sun. He was unused to seeing her like this. She looked even more pleasant than she had the day before, when she had visited him. He frowned. 

“Yes, what is it?”

He had spoken louder, sharper than intended. Now the same reclining clerics who had spotted Raistlin and Tasslehoff crossing the lawn were giving the mage sidelong glances and muttering darkly. They would say nothing aloud, Raistlin knew. They were too afraid of the loathsome Fistandantilus to voice any dissent at the way he addressed one of their order. He could do much worse in their presence, and they would not lift a finger to stop him.

Crysania, however, either did not hear the irritation in his voice or chose to ignore it.“I'd like to show you the garden.”

Raistlin smirked, “I can see it from here, Revered Daughter.”

“Yes,” she continued, undaunted. “I'm sure you can. There was something in particular I wanted to show you on the far side of the garden, though, something that might be of interest to you.”

“Oh?” Raistlin replied. She was being intentionally vague, he could see that clearly, trying to draw him away from the other prying eyes in the garden, perhaps? It was Yule, and he had hoped to spend it holed up in his chambers, however, a surprise visit by the kender earlier that morning had finally dragged him out.

Tasslehoff had unceremoniously shown up at his chambers and had guessed, quite correctly, that Raistlin was within his room even though he had made no sound louder than the scratch of his quill as he took notes for his studies. And while he had magically enchanted the door from being opened by the kender's most adept fingers, Raistlin had made a fatal error in his spellcasting: he had done nothing to soundproof the door from the kender's inane ramblings. Whether by foolishness or design, Tasslehoff had camped himself outside of Raistlin's room and had begun to regale him with tales he had already been forced to suffer through on a thousand other occasions throughout his long acquaintance with the kender. Eventually, Raistlin could take no more, and had opened his door, but rather than let the kender come in, he had offered to listen to the kender's concerns in the garden, and had promptly escorted him there.

In the end, Tasslehoff had forgotten what specifically it was that he had come to talk to Raistlin about, something about his Important Mission, but what that something was, the kender hadn't the faintest recollection. Raistlin was more than grateful for this, and reminded Tas that he was to return to the Temple the day after tomorrow for further instructions on his Mission.

Raistlin had been looking forward to retreating back to the darkness of his room, to the cool clarity of his studies, and was displeased he had to suffer yet another distraction. Crysania's presence, at once so intoxicating and necessary, had become dangerous to his plan. He considered the seed of doubt already planted within her, had watered it, cultivated it, and was pleased to see it growing and budding into what he had hoped would be a most fruitful bloom. Now, he needed to be careful not to over-water it, lest the plant should drown. And perhaps, he with it. 

“And what is it that you wish to drag me away from my studies to see?”

“A plant.”

“A plant?” Raistlin scorned. “You waste my time, Revered Daughter. I have much to accomplish in the coming days.”

Again she reached out to his forearm, a soft touch on the black velvet. “I believe it to be poisonous, and I'm concerned about the safety of my fellow clerics, and for the animals who come and go in the garden,” she continued, her face demonstrating that compassion that was oddly rare in one of her profession. “Please, it will only take a moment.”

He thought of the kender, and, while he did not believe Crysania would stoop to waiting outside his door, thought it might be best to delay his gratification a little longer, and go along with her.

“Very well,” he sighed. “Lead the way.”

The sun was high in the sky, oven-hot, beating down on them and making Raistlin uncomfortably warm in his black velvet robes. He could see sweat gathered at the nape of Crysania's neck as she walked ahead of him, her back also partially exposed by the airy white gown she wore. What had come over her, these last few weeks? Her appearance had entirely changed since coming here, to Istar. Surely it was more than the heat that made her forsake the high-necked, matronly robe adopted by her order in their own time... Perhaps something to do with him? He discarded that thought as quickly as it came—he was merely flattering himself, something he had learned long ago he should never dare to do, at least as far as such matters were concerned. The gods knew why she did what she did, Raistlin thought, and he resolved not to care.

He was not entirely sure that he met that resolution.

The garden encompassed the entire southern half of the grounds surrounding the Temple of Istar. Beautiful, lush, and full of life, they were tended to by servants and frequented by clerics and visitors alike. Red ribbons, golden and silver bows, holly, and mistletoe had been gaudily arranged all throughout the garden in celebration of the holiday, much detracting from its inherent beauty, but lending it a festive charm of its own.

Unbidden, Raistlin began to think of his family's own Yuletide celebrations in Solace. He saw the memory hazily in his mind's eye, saw himself seated in front of their small fireplace, all together for once—his father, mother, Kit, Caramon, and he. Barely old enough to remember such things, he recalled opening a hastily wrapped package from his mother (likely put together by Kitiara, he realized now) containing a crow's skull and a pair of newly knitted socks. He had been exceedingly impressed with the skull, and had thanked his mother profusely. Rosamun had looked at the gift with uncertainty, but stroked Raistlin's hair and told him he was very welcome all the same. Gilon and Caramon eyed the thing with disgust as he presented it proudly to each of them, while Kitiara stood near the fireplace, trying to suppress a grin. The memory began to fade into a jumble of other memories of other yules, some of which he had the feeling did not belong to him, and Raistlin forcibly ended that line of thought before it went any further.

“This one, over here,” Crysania was pointing to a medium-sized bush with large, magenta-colored flowers that were drooping with the heat. “I was walking near here the other day and it just seemed so familiar to me. It reminds me of a drawing I once saw in a book, but I cannot place its name.”

He stepped toward the bush, careful not to touch it in any way, and said, “Oleander. It is quite poisonous, Revered Daughter, you had every reason to believe that. It is considered one of the more deadly flowering plants in the world.”

Her eyes widened in shock, “So I was right. Why in the world would the Temple have something like this planted in their own garden without so much sign or a fence?”

Raistlin regarded her coldly, “I imagine the Temple has some use for it. Besides, it is only harmful if ingested, so unless there are any clerics about who are liable to snack upon it...”

“But what use could the Temple possibly have for it?”

Raistlin replied slowly and with deadly calm, “What use does anyone have for a poisonous plant, Revered Daughter?”

Crysania's cheeks flushed, her brow contracted. “You blaspheme.”

Raistlin took a step toward her. Easy, so easy.

“You have seen it for yourself, Crysania,” he said with casual conviction, “the corruption of the Kingpriest and his church. This is, perhaps, another manifestation of that corruption.”

Crysania stepped back coolly and adopted a haughty expression, reminding Raistlin very much of how she had looked the first time they had met in Astinus' study. “I think it more likely that some errant gardener thought the plant looked pleasing to the eye and was either unheedful or unaware of its less desirable properties. I shall have to find out who is in charge of the garden and have a word with them.”

“The gardener in question was very likely an elf, and elves, as you know Revered Daughter, have a most intimate knowledge of flora,” Raistlin deepened the lie almost without meaning to, by reflex, acting on some uncontrollable urge to drag the cleric down further into the hole he had dug for the two of them. He sneered, “No, I think it unlikely that whomever introduced this most deadly bloom into the Temple garden was unaware of its true nature.” 

He could see the reason of his words hit home. Her eyes lost some of their ice, turning contemplative as her lips relaxed from their frown, parting just slightly as she exhaled. When she met his gaze again, she was calm, but wary.

“I cannot believe that is true,” she sighed and turned her face towards the Temple, where sat the Kingpriest in all his golden splendor, “and yet...”

Raistlin made no reply, having become distracted by the point where the lines of her neck met her collarbone as she faced away from him. He turned from her in a wave of self-revulsion, his hand clutching the Staff of Magius tightly.  
“If there is nothing else you need me for—”

“No, I don't suppose there is,” She replied despondently, turning back to him. “I was going to attend the Yule Ball this evening but now,” her gaze rested on the oleander bush for a moment, “I don't think I will.”

Raistlin began to cough, “We've been over this.” He rasped, “It will look odd—if you do not attend. You must not draw suspicion.” His coughing grew worse and he began to lean against the staff for support, shrinking away from her touch when she tried to rest her hand on his shoulder. He regarded her viciously but had no breath with which to speak.

“I am not sure that I care about their suspicions anymore,” Crysania murmured, frowning. “I had forgotten how little time we have left here until my visit to you yesterday. The Kingpriest, his people, this church, perhaps they truly are lost.”

Raistlin felt air return to his lungs. He stood up straight, wiped the blood from his mouth with a small white cloth, and allowed his expression to soften, allowed his facade to slip just a fraction, to allow her in.

“Do you truly believe that, Crysania?” he asked as one who has been doubted, but who is now seeing signs of vilification. The act was deliciously easy to keep up. “Have you finally been convinced of their utter folly?” Perhaps a little more water would not hurt this flower. “Have you truly opened your eyes to our great potential?”

She lowered her gaze, uncertain, and took a half-step back. Unwilling to lose any ground, Raistlin took a step forward and settled the Staff of Magius firmly to one side of her, half- enclosing her between himself and the oleander bush.

“Raistlin,” she breathed, her eyes finding his again, and he was pleased to see fear within them. “I don't know. I-I had a dream last night—a horrible nightmare! The wrath of gods was upon me, Paladine's wrath, Paladine's sorrow! It was terrible to behold, it clutched at me and froze my heart. I heard the bells of destruction, and I began to run,” her eyes, now glazed and feverish, stopped seeing his, turned their gaze inward, “but I could not escape. I stumbled through the darkness until I came suddenly to your door, and I fell into your arms—” Crysania stopped abruptly, seeming just now to realize what she was saying. Her face, already flushed, now went almost comically red, but Raistlin found no humor in it. The hand clutching the Staff trembled, her lip quivered as she searched his face for instruction.

“Raistlin,” she continued, placing one hand below his shoulder. “You don't have to do this. I've learned my lesson and, I believe, so have you. Yes, the Kingpriest and his church were corrupt. I see that now, and I must not, as the future head of the Church, repeat his mistakes. And you,” she smiled at him almost shyly, “I think you are beginning to learn that you are capable of—”

“Watch yourself, Revered Daughter,” Raistlin wrenched her hand away from him, and fixed her a menacing gaze. “Do not attempt to lecture me on your silly principles. The only lesson I need learn is how to make you see what you do not wish to—that I intend to eradicate this world of its greatest evil, and that you are coming very close to being in the way of that.” He hadn't meant to say that last part. Indeed, she was coming close to preventing all of his plans, but not for the reasons he was intimating.

Crysania frowned, “I understand perfectly what you hope to accomplish, Raistlin. Believe me, there is none who wishes more for the eradication of evil than I...”

Raistlin scoffed.

“But destroying our greatest enemy by such means is...madness,” she regarded him with that damnable pitying expression that he loathed. Raistlin had had enough.

“Believe me mad then, Revered Daughter,” he said in venomous tones as he drew away from her. “And by what name will they call you when you return to our own time, alone, and unwilling to fight against evil? Coward? Murderer?”

Crysania blanched, “None will call me by that name, I assure you. None would blame me for your death should I return without you, for surely death is what awaits you should you decide to fight the Queen on your own.”

“Ha,” he barked and began walking away, back towards the Temple. “We shall see that when the day comes, Revered Daughter.” Crysania began to follow, but he paused and said, “Please, you have kept me from my studies long enough. As I said, I have much to accomplish in the weeks to come. If you will not help me,” he said in particularly poisonous tones, “at least let me study in peace, that I may do some good for this world.”

He did not look back to see how this remark was received, had no need to. He continued on towards the Temple and into its halls, congratulating himself on turning this distraction into an unprecedented victory.


	2. The Time Traveling Kender

Raistlin spent the rest of his Yule as he wished, locked away in his room, surrounded by his books, his mind deep within his studies. He thought no more of Lady Crysania or their conversation, thought no more of his brother or his predicament as a gladiator, and certainly thought no more of the time-traveling kender and the implications his presence in the past bore. With the fire roaring and the merry-makers far away, Raistlin was able to lose himself entirely within his magic.

He paid no heed to the passage of time. There was, at one point, the thunderous crash of the cyclone, the first of the acts of the gods that demonstrated their displeasure with the Church, but Raistlin had been expecting that. He wondered, for a moment, if Crysania had gone to the Yule celebration or not, and hoped she had not been foolish enough to be near the cyclone when it brought town the temple’s seventh tower. As far as he could recall, Astinus recorded no injuries or deaths as a result of this first Calamity, but, with Tasslehoff having infiltrated the stream of time, who could tell what was possible to change in the past, and what wasn't.

It must have been very late when Raistlin finally noticed his eyes swimming with strain and fatigue, and decided that he had better rest. Gently, he closed the spellbook at his fingers, and leaned back into his chair. He was about to stand when there came a noise from behind him—a whooshing noise, like a gust of wind, but from within his room. If he weren't absolutely sure that he had reworked the wards around his chambers after the kender had disturbed him that morning, Raistlin would have thought that it was the sound of another wizard entering his room via the intangible corridors of magic. He half expected to hear Dalamar's soft voice saying, “Excuse me, Shalafi,” but that too, was impossible, only a reflex of having lived with the elf for past two years. Yet, if it was not another mage who had caused the sound, what in the world was it? He thought of the death knight, Lord Soth, that moldy old guard dog of his sister's. The magic of the damned was not like the magic of the living. Raistlin thought it unlikely that the death knight could journey to this time and place. Still, he could not be entirely sure, and, though he was more powerful than Soth by far, Raistlin was careful to avoid overconfidence.

All these thoughts passed through Raistlin's mind in fractions of a second, and in several smaller fractions came a spell of defense to his lips. He stood slowly, as if he had noticed nothing unusual, backed his chair away from his desk, and turned to find—nothing. 

Raistlin frowned. All of his instincts and mercenary experience told him that there must be someone else in the room, yet all he saw were his bed, the chest that held his clothing, a second chair, and his bookshelves. Lit by dying firelight, none of these objects were large enough for a human to hide behind.

Raistlin continued the act. Dignity aside, he went over to the wash basin and splashed his face clean, all while keeping one slit of an eye open and fixated on the small mirror that stood beside the wash basin, which reflected the rest of his chambers. Still he saw nothing. He stood once more and patted his face dry with a nearby cloth, now almost entirely vulnerable to whatever it was that may be lurking. 

And still nothing.

With another frown, Raistlin walked to the side of his bed, thinking perhaps he had been mistaken. Perhaps it was just the wind after all, and his positional hearing had been incorrect. He began to untie the outer layers of his robes, falling now into his normal routine, and nearly jumped out of his skin when he heard a very distinct giggle.

Not knowing where to aim his attack, for he still saw no assailant, Raistlin grabbed the Staff of Magius and backed as far as he could into the corner of his room, waiting for his opponent to reveal themselves. He didn't wait long. Not a second later, a distinctly kender-like form jumped up from the other side of the bed, bursting once more into a chorus of giggles that seemed too numerous to come from just one small being.

“Did I scare you, Raistlin?” Tasslehoff squealed. “I've seen cats that can't jump as high as you did just now! Say, that reminds me, did I ever tell you about Palin's cat, Fig? Oh, what am I talking about, of course I can't have told you about Palin's cat, or about Palin for that matter. He won't be born for another what, five, ten years from now? No, from now it's more like three hundred and ten years, but that's time travel for you. A kender can hardly keep it straight sometimes. Hey Raistlin, are you okay? Your eyes are kind of bulgy and your skin is, hey, it's not golden! I forgot that you had a different body when you came back here. How did you do that again? I'm sure it's a very interesting story and you know how much I like those and—anyway, where was I again? Oh yes, you really do look awful you know,” the kender was now wagging a reprimanding finger at the mage as he climbed up on the bed to take a closer look at him. “Your skin looks kind of red and splotchy and sweaty. Are you sure you don't have a fever or something?” 

But Raistlin was paying no attention to the kender's words, he was staring with an absolutely horrified expression at Tasslehoff's face. For while it was unmistakably Tasslehoff who stood before him, he looked much, much older than he should. He thought, for a fleeting moment, that his cursed eyesight had returned, but the face before him did not progressively age; it was fixed in the late middle years of kenderhood. Raistlin took in the wrinkled eyes, deep laugh lines, and graying topknot of hair with nothing short of ghastly revulsion before his eyes strayed from the kender's face to his hands, which held the crux of Raistlin's fear, that which caused his heart to pound and his breath to hitch in his throat—the time-traveling device.

“You really should sit down, Raistlin. In fact, I have a lot to say to you so even in you weren't dying of a fever or anything I'd encourage you to have a seat. You know, I wasn't so sure I would even come here. “After all, Paladine did explicitly say that I was not to go gallivanting but I thought, well, before I attend Caramon's funeral, maybe I ought to try to say goodbye to you too. Of course, I didn't want to go back to the abyss—that's where it all happens, by the way—and I didn't want to try to find you in the Dwarfgate Wars because, well, that was not a fun time for any of us, and then I thought, why not go back to Istar? And I knew I couldn't come back to visit you during any time where I might run in to my old self, why, think of the consequences of that!”

Raistlin began to cough violently at this remark, but Tas was too engrossed in his story to notice much. 

“So I made sure to be a very good time-traveler and come back to a night where I knew for a fact that I wasn't with you whatsoever. The night of Yule! I'm sad I had to miss when that cyclone hurled one of the towers of the temple into the sky, but that's alright, I suppose. I'm about to get squashed by a giant foot in my own time, so that's a pretty memorable experience too, although, I'm not sure if I'll remember it after I die,” here the kender sat down on the edge of the bed with a contemplative expression on his small, aged face.

“Sometimes I wonder if anything I ever did mattered, you know, because it was always the little things. That's why, instead of just saying goodbye to you, I thought, wouldn't it be better to do something great, something truly, truly great? And I don't mean stopping the Cataclysm,” Tasslehoff fixed a stern eye on Raistlin, who had indeed sat down during the kender's rant, wearing an expression somewhere between confusion and fury, “because I remember quite clearly that it can't be stopped, even though you told me it could. I should be mad at you for that, what with me ending up in the Abyss and all, and for what you did to poor Gnimsh, but that's what I'm here for,” Tasslehoff now beamed proudly. “Maybe, if I tell you how awful this will all turn out, you won't go through with it—any of it—and he'll be safe and so will you.”

Tasslehoff looked about to start speaking again, but Raistlin held up a hand to stop him. If he was ever going to sort this out, he must take control of the conversation. “What do you mean 'how awful this will all turn out?' Have you seen,” cool realization dawned on him, “Have you seen what will happen to me?”

“Of course! In fact, I've seen at least two different futures, maybe three?” Here Tasslehoff paused scratched his head, “I can't quite remember, but oh! Where are my manners?” He held out a small hand to the seated Raistlin, “I'm Tasslehoff Burrfoot from the year 421. That’s in the future, you know.”

Raistlin waved the proffered hand away impatiently, “Yes, yes this much I've figured out already. However, I must know,” Raistlin grabbed Tasslehoff firmly by the shoulders, afraid the kender would become distracted otherwise, “what will come of my endeavor? Will I,” Raistlin hesitated. Did he truly want to know? What were the risks in asking? What were the risks in knowing? Perhaps in asking he would jeopardize his entire plan. Yet, how could he ignore this opportunity? Knowledge was power, after all, and kender or not, here was seated before him one who had seen the future, or a version of the future, at the least. Whatever information he could provide could be essential to Raistlin's endeavor. “Will I succeed?”

Tasslehoff frowned and looked unusually somber, “Yes and no,” he gulped and met Raistlin's gaze with wide eyes, “I saw a future where you do s-succeed and Raistlin—it was horrible! Everything dead, everything dying! You tried to create life but nothing worked so you just destroyed everything. Even Bupu. You, you killed everyone until your constellation was the only thing that shone in the sky, until you were the only thing left in the whole world, and more.”

Raistlin was silent for a moment, truthfully a little giddy to hear that he had succeeded in this version of the future, before the weight of the kender's words hit home. These were the results of his masterful plan? Death, destruction...loneliness?

“Lies,” he shoved the kender away and went to stand by the window. “Why do I waste my time interrogating kender?” He sneered, “In fact, how do I know you even are the Tasslehoff that I know?” Even as he spoke these words, Raistlin had no doubt in his mind as to the kender's identity. He had known him far too long to let the signs of age, which had been familiar to Raistlin under the curse of his hourglass eyes, to prevent him from recognizing the kender.

“I am Tasslehoff,” the kender replied, indignant. “And I can prove it, too! I know that you told me, young me, that is, that he, that is, that I could stop the Cataclysm using the Device of Time Traveling, which, as I mentioned, does not work at all and I can also tell you all of my favorite, exclusive stories about Uncle Trapspringer and about the time I found that woolly mammoth—”

“Enough,” Raistlin snapped and turned back to face him. “I haven’t the time to indulge your ravings.” 

“Yes, you do!” Tas countered in such an uncharacteristically stern voice that Raistlin was truly startled. The kender’s face was solemn. “This plan of yours is Seriously Bad Business. Caramon saw this future too, after we decided to go back to our own time. Only the time travel spell was thrown off by your crossing the Portal with Lady Crysania, so we got thrown two years into the future, though,” the kender paused, slipping back into his usual lightheartedness, “I'm not sure why it was two years, it may as well have been five.”

“Get on with it,” Raistlin hissed.

“Oh right, anyway,” Tas resumed, “Caramon decided he couldn't let you succeed, that, all things considered, you made a really terrible god and needed to be stopped, so we went back to our own real time and Caramon went to meet you in the Abyss and he showed you what would happen if you succeeded, so instead of becoming a god you decided to sacrifice yourself so that the Dark Queen couldn't enter the world and, oh, did I mention I was piloting a flying citadel during all this? It was really a delightful time—”

Raistlin rubbed his temples in frustration, “What do you mean that Caramon 'showed' me what it was like after I succeeded?”

Tas frowned, “I'm not sure. I wasn't there, like I was saying. I think he said you did some sort of spell or something to see his mind?”

Raistlin lunged at the kender in flurry of robes, placing his right hand on Tasslehoff's forehead and muttering the words of the spell.

“Yes! I imagine it was something like this!” Tas was saying breathlessly. “Though a little warning would have been nice!”

Raistlin did not reply. His eyes were open, unblinking, and Tas could see reflected in them all of the memories he had just been speaking of—the horrible, barren world over which Raistlin reigned, Krynn’s final hours, Tas and his brother returning to their own time, Caramon telling him of the confrontation in the Abyss, seeing Lady Crysania blind and on the verge of death, the loneliness of his failed godhood...

Abruptly he ended the spell and turned away, his body shaking, a fountain of emotions swelling, fear, horrible, clenching fear gripping at his stomach. It couldn't be. That wasn't how it was supposed to end. His fear boiled into anger. His vision blurred. Tasslehoff, though mere feet from him, suddenly appeared to be standing at the end of a long, red, bruise-colored tunnel. He was saying something to him that Raistlin could not hear. He didn't want to hear it. He wanted to unhear what he had heard in the kender's mind, unsee what he had seen. Himself, a god! Himself, utterly, devastatingly alone—as he always had been, but worse! The gnawing want, the unending desire for something, anything, even the darkness that had ceased to exist. Of course he would rather be killed than face that!

“And what happens,” Raistlin managed to ask, his voice soft but ragged, “after Caramon stops me? After I die?”

“Oh, you don't die,” Tas said cheerily. “At least, I don't think you do. There's been some debate on that point. See, a lot of people, like Tika for example, think you were trapped in the Dark Queen's endless torment, but others, like Caramon, believe you were granted eternal sleep by Paladine for your sacrifice. In any case, you were woken up not long ago, and got to meet your nephew, Palin, who looks a lot like you, you know, and he—”

“Enough,” Raistlin said, his back still turned to Tasslehoff. “Enough.” He said more softly. Though sane enough to doubt the tall tales of any kender, Raistlin had never known Tasslehoff to tell a bald-faced lie. He had seen all that Tas had described through the spell, albeit in bits and fragments, and while he had seen little, Raistlin had felt much. There was no doubting Tas's words, nor the emotions conveyed through time and memory, brought forth by the coaxing of Raistlin's magic. Raistlin had a terrible decision to make. He had chosen not to ignore this happening, and now he must deal with the consequences. He had known full well from the moment he saw his aged companion holding the time-traveling device in his hand, that any interaction with him would be time-altering. Raistlin had not anticipated this, however. How could he? Master of Past and Present though he was, he was now caught by the web of the future—his fate, as told by the kender, at the center. He must find a way to overcome it. To free himself from it.

Slowly, Raistlin lowered himself to a knee, bringing his face even with the kender's. “You must tell me all that you know, but you must start from the beginning,” he said, his tone even but firm. “And when you are done, you must go back to your own time, and you must promise me never to use that device again.”

“Oh, but Raistlin, I have to go to Caramon's funeral!” Tas pouted. “That was the whole point of Paladine giving the device to me in the first place!”

Raistlin sighed, “Then after Caramon's funeral,” he found it difficult to say that phrase, for some reason, “you must promise me never to use the device again.”

Tas didn't look happy about this compromise, but he nodded all the same, “Okay, Raistlin. I promise.”

“Good,” Raistlin said, standing and then resuming his seat. “Now, today is Yule. Tell me everything you can remember as it pertains to my plans from this day forward.”

“Gee, are you sure, Raistlin?” Tas looked distressed. “We'll be here all night!”

“Yes,” Raistlin replied, once more calm, once more in control. “We will be.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oho, look who decided to show up.
> 
> I had the idea for this fic while rereading the War of the Souls Trilogy. Tas hints that he may have made other stops throughout time before arriving at Caramon's funeral (twice) and I thought, what if he went to find Raistlin? 
> 
> I wonder how the archmage will take it...


	3. Decisions

It was well past dawn before Raistlin was satisfied that he had adequately questioned the elder Tasslehoff. The kender related everything—every step in their sordid journey, and his, until the hour of Raistlin's demise. The Cataclysm, the Army of Fistandantilus, the Dwarfgate Wars, Tasslehoff's time in the Abyss, the murder of his gnomish friend, the trials faced by Raistlin and Crysania in the abyss, as related by Crysania to Caramon and so to Tas. Of course, the kender exaggerated a few points, he had no doubt, but Raistlin believed he was able to piece together the right portions of Tasslehoff's story to form a cohesive, and correct, narrative in his mind.

His sister's plans did not concern him, nor did the plans of his Queen. They could be dealt with easily enough. What most intrigued him about Tasslehoff's tale, aside from the less than desirable nature of his godhood, was how this journey changed his brother and Lady Crysania. Crysania's progression from the self-righteous, proud cleric she currently was to one who had been humbled—physically blinded, but now fully able to see her own folly, was impressive. Raistlin doubted he would ever see this version of her, now that things had been interrupted. 

As for Caramon, Tasslehoff related, his brother had finally been able to stand up to Raistlin, had been able to take his own path at long last. Raistlin had deterred Tasslehoff from speaking too much of Caramon's life after the culmination of Raistlin's plans, as he had no desire to delve into a future which must now surely be altered, but it seemed that Caramon had finally found his happiness in a way that had nothing to do with his twin. Raistlin knew he should be content with this, but something within him still cried out that Caramon could never be happy without him, that he could never escape Raistlin's influence, and all for the better. Caramon needed him, would always need him. He was his right hand, his shadow, the very air in his lungs. Try though he did to release Caramon into the world, 

Raistlin couldn't deny he still took some pleasure in knowing just how much Caramon needed him. Perhaps that would change in time.

Once he was done with the elder Tasslehoff, the kender said his lengthy good-byes—a mixture of wistfulness of the interesting times they had had together, and of forgiveness of crimes Raistlin had not yet committed. Raistlin then watched with narrowed, bloodshot eyes as Tasslehoff activated the Device of Time Traveling and disappeared with a similar whooshing sound that had heralded his arrival several hours before. The moment he was alone, Raistlin filed the notes he had taken into the magically locking chest on his desk, and had gone to bed.

He did not sleep long. His torturous nights with the Dark Queen had now changed to an all too vivid nightmare of the world over which he would rule. Ashes, dust, lightning. Blasted stumps, mud, acrid rain. Death. It was as if the curse of his hourglass eyes had extended to the rest of existence. All faded, all died, and Raistlin was left howling into a void that could not hear him, calling out the name of anyone whom he had ever cared for. “Caramon! My brother! Help me! Crysania! Mother! Don't leave me!” There was no answer, no sound, not even the curses and death cries of his unfortunate subjects to relieve his emptiness. He woke with the name “Bupu,” on his lips, and tears, which he knew to be for himself, stinging his eyes.

...

Raistlin did not leave his room for several days. He slept little, and paid even less attention to the world outside, though the Thirteen Calamities raged all around him. He could feel the closeness of the gods, their weight, their displeasure and anger, yet all of the woes of Istar occupied a smaller part of Raistlin's brain than the news brought by that accursed time-traveling kender.

He weighed his options. Again and again, he went over the scenarios in his head. It would be utter foolishness for him to proceed as he had planned, and more foolish still to return to his own time, an empty-handed failure. Raistlin smirked in self-deprecation. Wasn't he already a failure? The flaws that prevented a successful godhood were apparently already deeply embedded within him. He thought of the Live Ones, his humiliating attempt at creating life. More power would not have saved them, would not have made their tortured existence any more bearable. No. There was something he lacked, something that could not be found by challenging the Dark Queen.

Everywhere his mind turned, he came to a wall. He could not win. He could be a god, yes. He could achieve that impossible feat, and Raistlin took immense satisfaction in knowing that it was something that would come to pass if he chose, but he could not, as the kender had said in his ramblings, “have his cake and eat it too.” Simplistic though the expression was, Raistlin saw the truth in it. He needed time to regroup. He needed to rethink his plans, his goals. He could not continue, knowing that what was to come was success, and with it, a fate far worse than death—or else failure and eternal sleep.

Two days before the Cataclysm, Raistlin made his decision.

...

“We are going back.”

Crysania's eyes widened, playing out various stages of emotion—confusion, shock, disbelief, suspicion—before reaching rapturous joy.

“Truly? You're not going through with it?” She asked, looking up at him from where she sat. They were in Raistlin's room, the mage standing before her, arms folded within his plain black robes, head bowed. He could see her, but she could not see beyond the pall of shadow cast by his hood, which he wore low over his face. Outside, the great storm was raging in full force, thunder and lightning continuous and almighty. Raistlin hardly need illuminate his chambers, so constant were the flashes of electricity, yet a fire was necessary to counteract the cold brought by the howling wind, which crept through even the finest stone work, and caused Raistlin to shiver even in the thick layers of his robes.

“Yes.”

Before Raistlin could draw another breath, Crysania leaped from her seat and threw her arms around him, burying her face in his chest.

“Oh this is wonderful!” she cried. “I can hardly believe it!” Her voice became softer, “I was able to save you from the darkness.” He could feel her lips as she murmured, brushing them against the soft fabric of his robes, and felt a shiver run through him. Hastily, firmly, he untangled himself from her and held her wrists with his hands at half an arm's length from him.

“Crysania, listen to me,” he said, drawing her into his gaze, letting her see within the shadow of his hood. “We are going back because I decided that it would be the best course of action for my well-being. Do not flatter yourself that you had anything to do with this decision; it is based off of new information that has only recently been presented to me. I regret nothing that I have done, nor do I regret anything that I have plotted. I have simply decided that I must abandon these plans to avoid a...rather unpleasant set of circumstances.”

Crysania's smile did not waver, “Raistlin,” she replied breathlessly. “There is no shame in admitting you were in the wrong. The gods counsel us that—”

“Did you not hear me, Revered Daughter?” He pulled down harshly on her wrists, causing her to gasp in pain. He gripped them all the harder, “We are leaving because that is what I wish to do, not because I have had a change of heart,” he spat the last word, sneered at her, then let go of her wrists with a small shove.

Crysania looked downcast, rubbing her wrists as the tears of joy she had shed such a short time ago dried and were forgotten. Raistlin realized in that moment how disheveled she looked. Her hair was in dire need of brushing, was starting to become matted at the ends, and her robes were stained and unwashed, covered in flecks of grime and dirt. Her once ample cheeks were almost as hollow as his own, and the lines of her face were drawn and harsh. She looked as if she would say something to him, but could not bring herself to it. Still, it was not long before her smile returned, this time a bit more knowing, a bit more reserved. Her hand went to the medallion of Paladine that she wore around her neck.

“Whatever your reasons, Raistlin,” she said, her gaze reaching his once more, “I am glad.” Shyly, she stepped forward and clasped his hand in hers.

Raistlin said nothing. He had more than half-expected this. Though he dearly wished that Crysania understood how little her admonitions had affected him, he had decided that it was best not to reveal what had truly caused him to abandon his plot. Besides which, he was in no condition to argue the point. He had already begun the preparations for the time-traveling spell that would take him, Caramon, Crysania, and Tasslehoff, back to their own time, and it was taking its toll on him—not to mention the looming Cataclysm. The air was so heavy with the nearness of the gods that it was almost palpable. His lungs, though much improved from the ones he had in his own time, had a difficult time breathing in the dense, sticky air, let alone drawing in the air needed to argue with a woman who would see only what she wanted to see.

He freed his hand.

“Be here at dawn the day after tomorrow,” he said coolly. “And tell the others. If any one of you is missing, I will not hesitate to leave you behind.

“Leave us behind?” Crysania frowned, “But Caramon's device—”

“Is only able to transport one person, and one person alone.”

“No,” Crysania said, “I don't, I don't understand. The note from Par-Salian—”

“Was intentionally misleading,” Raistlin said with a wave of his hand. He strode over to his desk, where was open a large, ancient volume. “I can show you the evidence if you wish.” His voice was taught, accusatory.

Crysania looked as though she were considering it, but thought better. “No,” she said slowly, “I don’t doubt you but...Why would they lie to me? And Caramon? Does he know?”

Raistlin snorted, “Of course not. If he did, he would break his neck trying to give the thing to you. He would like nothing better than to sacrifice himself in the service of an attractive woman.” Raistlin saw Crysania's blush, and continued all the more coldly. “As to the why...” His voice became softer, yet somehow more powerful, “They fear us, Lady Crysania. They know what I am capable of, and what we are capable of together. Even as we return from this aborted operation, they will continue to fear us. They sent you back here to die so that I would fail in my ambitions. They knew what we would accomplish if you and I were to join forces, and they sought to stop that at all costs.” As he spoke, visions shared by the elder Tasslehoff flashed in his mind, visions both glorious and terrifying of his reign.

He began to cough, crumpling down, leaning against the desk before him as he gasped and hacked. Crysania, true to form, came around the desk and placed her hands on his shoulders and helped him stand when it passed. Raistlin did not push her away, at least, not at first. Once recovered, he slipped out of her grip and strode to the door of his chamber, indicating to Crysania that it was time to leave.

“We leave here at dawn,” He said, holding the door open. “No later.”

“I understand,” Crysania said warmly. “I will see you tomorrow.” She smiled and left, practically floating with joy, as she walked out the door. 

Raistlin watched her leave with trepidation. Perhaps he should not have concealed the truth from her. He had no moral misgivings for withholding what he knew, but her ego, already swollen with self-righteousness, was guaranteed to grow only larger at her perceived victory over him. The thought of her congratulating herself on reclaiming the soul of the dreaded Master of Past and Present was enough to tempt him to change his mind, but no, he would have to learn to swallow his pride, or face the consequences. Considering those consequences, what choice did he have? Cursing her under his breath, Raistlin slammed the door shut and went to pack his things.


	4. The Way Home

“Are you ready, my brother?” Raistlin asked.

Caramon stared unblinking into his brother's eyes—a scrutinizing gaze—before turning away and heaving a heavy sigh, “I suppose so.”

He stood outside the door to Raistlin's temple chambers, with Tasslehoff and Lady Crysania at his side. It was before dawn. They had arrived even earlier than Raistlin had asked, and Caramon was apprehensive, to say the least.

“Then let us proceed,” Raistlin replied tersely. He swept passed the three of them, saying, “Follow closely behind me. I must perform the spell from my laboratory.”

“I didn't know there was a laboratory here, Raistlin!” came Tasslehoff's excited reply. “And I've been all over this temple! Say, you don't suppose,” he turned to Caramon, “that it's a secret laboratory, do you?”

Caramon, who had begun to walk after Raistlin as he made his way along the corridor, replied absently, “I think it must be, Tas.”

“Wow!”

“Ahem,” Crysania cleared her throat and fixed Tasslehoff a cold glare as she too hurried after Raistlin.

“Is there something in your throat, Lady Crysania?” Tas asked. “No? Oh, it's just that you were making these funny noises that usually people make when there's something in their throats. Or does that noise mean something else?”

“It means she wants you to be quiet, Tas,” Caramon said, voice still oddly emotionless. 

They had followed Raistlin up and down various corridors, the mage moving with dramatic speed through the halls of the temple. Caramon was having trouble keeping track of which way they had come, so confusing was the path his brother took. It reminded him horrifyingly of when he had been in the Dark Queen's Temple in Nereka. The twisting, shifting corridors of that place still haunted his nights, and as the beginning rumblings of the Cataclysm shook the Temple of Istar, Caramon thought he could see the walls of the temple transform into those of its nightmarish sister.

“Oh,” Tas said simply. “Why didn't she say so?” He muttered. 

Silence fell as the three hurried after Raistlin. Walls that were not walls opened at the mage’s approach, stairs formed out of the darkness and led them down, down into the bowels of the earth. Caramon hadn’t known it was possible for his legs to ache from going down stairs, and no matter how far down they went, he could still feel the oppressive heat, hear the howling of the wind, the monstrous crash of thunder. He did not follow closely behind his brother; he let Lady Crysania hold that honored position. When she had first arrived at the colosseum the night before, Caramon had mistaken her tears and disheveled state for something entirely different, and had been utterly flabbergasted when she told him that Raistlin had changed his mind about his mission. Caramon had been shocked, and disbelieving. 

“Lady Crysania,” Caramon had said gently, leading her to sit down upon his hard, unwelcoming bed. “How do we know this isn’t just another part of his plan?”

She had shaken her head in protest, “I can see it in his eyes, Caramon.” She grasped at his arm, looking at him in earnest, “He is changed. There is almost a fear in his eyes now.”

Caramon had raised his eyebrows, “Fear?”

She nodded, “It is the nearness of the gods. I have felt it too.”

Caramon frowned. 

Her face flushed, “When we last spoke, it was in anger. I was weak, doubtful of my purpose. I was unable to find him for several days—I thought he was still upset with me. Then, by the grace of the gods, he summoned me to his room and told me that we are to leave this place.” She had smiled, tears welling up in her eyes once more. “I could hardly believe it myself, but then I thought, perhaps his anger with me was a ruse. Perhaps, my words were able to reach him through the darkness after all.”

“Perhaps...”

Crysania had chuckled, “I see that you doubt me. I can’t say I blame you very much. I haven’t been the kindest to you, Caramon, and I am sorry for that. But believe me when I say that I care about your brother, and I have come to know him well.”  
Caramon had shaken his head.

“But I do,” Crysania had protested, standing up and facing him as he sat on the bed. “I believe he is being sincere. He did say,” here she had hesitated, “that it was through no intervention of mine, but of course he would say such a thing.”

“I’m not so sure, Lady,” Caramon said gravely. Seeing she was about to object again, Caramon had continued, “I hope you’re right. The gods know we need to be gone from this place, and I would dearly love to—to see Tika again,” his throat constricted painfully at the thought. “And to apologize to her. But there are things you don’t know about Raistlin, Lady Crysania.” The warrior’s expression darkened. “He doesn’t give up on anything. And though he’s had a way to excuse himself from everything bad that’s happened since we came here,” Caramon thought of the Barbarian’s death-face as he had been dragged from the arena, a victim of the Games of Istar, “I don’t believe for one moment that he’s had a change of heart.”

“We will see,” had been Crysania’s reply. 

Caramon had spent that night wide awake. When Tasslehoff had returned from the gods-knew-where he had been, Caramon had gruffly communicated what had happened, and gritted his teeth at the kender’s excited response. 

“And here we are,” Caramon said softly.

“Quite right, my brother,” Raistlin’s own whispered reply came.

Caramon came back to the present with a start. The stairs had ended, had led them now to a dark corridor. The light of the Staff of Magius illuminating the way, they walked the few, final feet to the open door of a massive laboratory. Things stared out at them from within the jars that lined the shelves, and cages both full and empty dotted the dark corners. Caramon felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. This place gave him the creeps, but he knew he must endure it. His trials were almost over. Soon he would be back in his own time. Soon he would see Tika again.

“Make no sound. I require silence for my spellcasting,” Raistlin hissed at the three of them. “And touch nothing,” he added with a poignant look at Tas, whose hands had already come dangerously close to pocketing a jar of glowing green eyes. Caramon expertly extracted the jar from Tas's hands and placed it back onto its shelving with a grimace.

“Sure, Raist,” he said tonelessly.

Raistlin did not reply. He had begun to attend to a chalk circle on the floor, which he seemed to be inspecting with great interest. There were runes and glyphs marked here and there along the circle, and spell components of various descriptions scattered where, Caramon supposed, they were supposed to be scattered. He didn't have the luxury of observing his brother's magical preparations, as Tas was already trying to make off with a large silver spoon that glowed with an eerie purple light, and Caramon spent much of the next twenty minutes plucking things out of the kender's hands while Crysania stood statue-still just inside the laboratory door. Caramon frowned. She had hardly stopped smiling since he had met her outside her temple chambers that morning. Even now, she stood with lips parted just slightly, eyes bright with elation at her apparent victory. Caramon didn't share her joy. He was over the moon to be able to see Tika again—his apology to her was long overdue—but aside from that, he didn't have much to look forward to once they returned to the present.

He remembered with shame how he had drunkenly tried to build their home, how he had given up after so little time. The foundation was there, and the frames and supports and—he swallowed—Raistlin's room. Caramon was under no delusions that his brother would return to Solace with him, even if they were really going back to their own time. He still couldn't be sure of that. Yes, Lady Crysania believed that they were with all her heart, but what if that were more of Raistlin's trickery? What if the spell he was now casting only brought them somewhere else in time? How long would Raistlin string them along in his plot?

Before Caramon realized it, Raistlin had ceased his preparations. His twin was looking at him with an unreadable expression. Pain? Anger? Certainly, Caramon saw no remorse therein. 

“Are you ready for us?” Caramon asked gruffly, wishing Raist would break off his staring.

Raistlin nodded, “Yes. All of you, to my side.”

Crysania beat Caramon to him, coming to stand next to the black-robe with an eager expression that Raistlin did not share. Caramon might have expected him to sneer at her, but his gaze was still unusually pensive, his defenses somewhat lowered. Caramon did not want to contemplate that expression too long, and so grabbed Tas by the scruff of his shirt and directed him to the middle of the chalk circle.

“Come on, Tas,” he grunted.

“Aw, but I was just—”

Caramon returned the black wax candle that was disappearing into Tasslehoff's pouches to the nearby counter and shook his head, “No. We have to leave now.”

“Be sure he makes no moves once the spell begins, my brother,” Raistlin rasped as all four of them took their places in the circle's center. 

Caramon tightened his grip on the kender's shoulders, “Sure, Raist.”

Raistlin did not reply. The laboratory was eerily silent, the sounds of the storms that fore-ran the impending Cataclysm could not reach them this far below ground, and the air was thick and clammy. Caramon shivered. It reminded him of being in Thorbardin, back when they had been searching for the Hammer of Kharas. He hated the feeling of being so far underground, made him think of being in a grave. Of course, Tanis had had it much worse than he. He loathed being underground.

Tanis...Caramon should see him, if Raistlin brought them back to their own time, that was. He owed him an apology, too. His face reddened just thinking about what a fool he'd made of himself the night Tanis had brought Lady Crysania to the Inn of the Last Home. A drunken fool. What must Tanis think of him? Well, Caramon resolved, he would set the record straight. As soon as they returned to the present, he would seek out the half-elf. Who knew? Maybe Tanis was just the person to help get Caramon back on his feet.

The silence was suddenly broken by Raistlin's chanting. It began as a low whisper, slow and deliberate, but as he continued, the magical phrases came faster and faster, hastened to a fever pitch. Repetitive, hypnotic, the words became almost a song. Caramon thought he could hear other voices in the ether around them, other words sung, as the circle and its runes and components began to glow. Tas squirmed in his arms, but Caramon held on to him firmly. Soon the music, the magic, was everything, and Caramon's senses could no longer distinguish sight from sound, touch from taste. Closing his eyes would not block out the light, closing his mouth would not remove the taste of iron from his tongue, and he suspected that the music he heard was more in his head than in his ears.

Raistlin's voice cut through all, exultant and powerful, and Caramon, overloaded and overwhelmed, soon lost consciousness. The music finally ended. The light faded. The last thing he recalled before he was lost to the world was the sensation of being dropped head-first into some raging river.

Then all was gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The title of this chapter comes from a song by the Devin Townsend Project, off of the album Addicted (one of my faves!) In fact, half of this fic is inspired by music. I'll put any relevant references in the notes as I go.


	5. Where the River Flows

It was cold, so cold. Raistlin could feel nothing, not the tips of his fingers, not the tops of his toes. Where was he? He felt wet. Odd. He could not recall having been near any body of water. His eyes felt strange, heavy. He tried to open them, but they would not budge. He breathed. Yes, he was still alive. He breathed again. It seemed about the only thing he could do. Breath in. Breath out. Breath in. Breath out—And he began to cough.

And cough.

And cough some more.

Now his eyes were open. Now he remembered—the spell! He had performed the Spell of Time Travel. He sat up, and looked around wildly. He appeared to be in a long room, sitting on intricately woven carpet. Next to him were sprawled Caramon, Crysania, and Tasslehoff, in various states of unconsciousness. There were bookshelves, an unlit fireplace, a large desk, all shadowy in the dim caused by the heavy, velvet curtains. Ah yes. He was in his study, in the Tower of High Sorcery of Palanthas. And if he were here, that must mean...

His hand rested upon the Staff of Magius, “Shirak.”

The room was suddenly illuminated in the staff's cold light as the crystal atop the dragon's claw flashed into life. Near where he was sitting, Crysania's face wrinkled at the disturbance to her slumber. She turned in her sleep, rolling onto her back with a murmur.

“What?” she asked sleepily. “Where...where are we?”

Caramon had also noticed the light, and was slowly coming to a seated position, rubbing the back of his head with one massive bronzed hand. He looked around the study warily, as Tasslehoff got to his feet with an eager smile, next to him.  
Caramon's eyes found Raistlin's. “Is this?” Caramon asked, hesitant.

The mage nodded, “Home.”

 

It did not take long for Dalamar to find them. Their arrival had caused quite a disturbance—a cacophony of noise that could be heard throughout the immense Tower. No sooner had all four time-travelers awakened than the Silvanesti elf came running in to the study, wearing a stunned expression. Raistlin carefully deflected his questions until rooms could be found for Caramon, Crysania, and the kender, and only after Raistlin was properly resting in his own bed would he speak with his apprentice. The spell had left him weak, bone-weary, and he was in no mood to answer Dalamar's almost ceaseless queries about what had happened, but still he obliged the elf, to a point.

“So you were,” Dalamar spoke softly from the side of the bed where he sat, illuminated by a single candle he had set at his shalafi's bedside. He seemed hesitant to continue, “Unsuccessful?”

Raistlin glared at his apprentice, “No.”

The elf pursed his lips in confusion, “Forgive my ignorance, shalafi, but I fail to understand. You went back to the past as part of your plans to defeat the Dark Queen. You have not done that, from what I can tell,” here Dalamar paused to contemplate Raistlin's blanket-covered form as if to be entirely certain that he indeed hadn't become a god without his noticing. “In what way were you successful?”

Had he more strength, Raistlin would have reprimanded his apprentice for his insolence, but as it was, Raistlin could only manage a withering stare, “I have learned much in this endeavor, Dalamar. Most of which, I dare not share.” He paused, coughing slightly. He did not relish having his old body back, his old frailness back. “What little I can share...will have to wait. Suffice to say that I am entirely satisfied that my plans would have succeeded, unerringly, should I have decided to see them through.”

Dalamar frowned, “So you have simply decided not to pursue...?”

“Godhood, yes,” Raistlin coughed. 

“And I am not to know the reason?” Dalamar's voice was careful, neither presumptuous nor accusatory.

“No,” Raistlin snapped. “You are not.” He could take little more of this. Between the fatigue and the way Dalamar was looking at him—his handsome face was a mixture of confusion and, Raistlin winced, disappointment. As soon as Raistlin made this observation, however, his apprentice's expression changed, and he gave Raistlin a kind of relieved half-smile.

“Such is the life of an apprentice,” Dalamar said ruefully. He continued with a hint of mischief in his eyes, “Shall I tell the Conclave? I am sure they would be delighted to hear.”

“No,” Raistlin rasped. “I will tell them myself.” 

He was a little in awe of Dalamar in that moment, making light of his role as a spy for the Conclave of Wizards, the role that had only recently earned him a most painful reminder of his betrayal—or perhaps not recently. Raistlin had spent long years of his own life in the past, and he had yet to ask, “Dalamar,” there was an urgency in his voice, “what year is it?”

“354,” the elf replied easily. “Why?”

Raistlin shook his head, “Then the spell worked as it should have.”

His apprentice nodded, “And thus you must be very tired. I will leave you to your rest, shalafi.”

Raistlin grumbled his thanks and dismissed Dalamar. The elf blew out the candle and hastily retreated from the room with soft, quiet footsteps. 

 

Raistlin spent all of the next few days in his chambers, recovering from his spell-casting. Dalamar was the only visitor he allowed, and the elf stayed only long enough to bring him his meals, make Raistlin his tea, and ensure that he had not developed a fever. Raistlin endured this last part of his visits with something like embarrassment. The touch of Dalamar's hand on his forehead as he felt for a temperature was enough to send shivers down Raistlin's spine, shivers which Dalamar could very likely feel as he stood, poised, over his shalafi's bed. If Dalamar noticed these convulsions, however, he said nothing, and, satisfied that Raistlin had not succumbed to any illness, promptly took his leave. Raistlin was always grateful when he did. He had had enough of such games and half-longings with Crysania. He did not want to start feeling the same for his own apprentice. 

Crysania herself had come to his door at least once per day since their return to the present, and Raistlin finally admitted her to his presence on the fifth.

On Raistlin's command, Dalamar showed the cleric into Raistlin's room, where he still lay, bed-bound, and bid her sit at the chair near his bedside. 

“Thank you,” Crysania said softly as she took her seat. She was back to wearing her hair in a severe knot at the back of her head, and the vestments she wore were the modern, modest counterparts of what she had worn in Istar.

“My pleasure,” Dalamar purred. He turned to Raistlin, “Do you require anything else, shalafi?”

“No,” Raistlin replied. “You may leave us.”

Dalamar bowed, hands folded in the sleeves of his robes, and took his leave. As soon as the door shut behind him, Raistlin addressed Crysania with eyebrows raised.

“You have left the Tower,” he said evenly.

Crysania blinked, confused, “I have. How did you know?”

“Unless Dalamar has the robes of a cleric of Paladine in his closet,” he replied with a quirk of his lips, “I would say that you have visited the Temple.”

Crysania lowered her gaze, looking somewhat ashamed, “I have visited the Temple, yes, and I have spoken with Elistan.”

“And?”

Crysania suddenly grasped his shoulder, causing Raistlin to wince.

“I'm sorry, Raistlin, I just couldn't keep the news to myself,” she said, imploring. Her eyes were wide and shone with the joy she so obviously felt at her perceived victory. “I told Elistan everything. How I was attacked on my way to Wayreth, how the Conclave sent us back in time, how they lied to us—how I turned you from your selfish plan.”

“Turned me?” Raistlin shrugged out of her grasp. His voice was deadly calm. He needed to have patience with this one, he knew. She was still ensnared in his web, and it would do more harm than good to cast her out. Better to cut loose the threads that bound her to him one by one, perhaps leaving a few in tact, just in case. “I have said before, Revered Daughter, that your influence, although considerable, had little to do with my decision to return to the present.”

Crysania smiled sadly, and her eyes were full of pity, “That is what you say, Raistlin, and if that is what you wish to believe, I don't suppose I can dissuade you.”

“You're right,” Raistlin said simply. Let her hold on to her delusion. “You cannot.” 

Crysania turned away from him and cleared her throat, her smile dropping only a fraction.

“And what did Elistan have to say about this turn of events?” Raistlin asked. He could already feel the fatigue in his voice, and knew he could not continue to converse for much longer. He needed to get the information he wanted from the cleric, and turn her out as quickly as possible.

Now Crysania did frown, a long line appearing between her delicate eyebrows. “He seemed to doubt your intentions.”

“How so?”

“He does not think that you have turned entirely from the darkness,” Crysania explained, her gaze introspective. “He believes you may simply be... resting, biding your time, before you return to your old ways. He thinks you may have met a roadblock, and that you will resume your previous course of action the moment you are able, or else, that you have come across a new road that will take you to the same destination.”

“A new road to the same destination?” Raistlin echoed sardonically. “Elistan does love his metaphors, but I am afraid that he is not correct.” As he continued, his tone only became more bitter, “Would that I had discovered another road to achieve my goal. Instead, I am forced to return to my own time, here to wait for the dust to settle and then—” He found he could not go on.

“And then?” Crysania prompted, eyes wide and eager. She placed a hand on his, where it rested under the blankets, the soft wool the only distance between them.

Raistlin regarded her coolly, “And then I shall turn myself to new endeavors.”

Her face fell, “I see. Not,” she gripped his hand under hers, “evil endeavors.”

Raistlin snorted, “I am a black-robe still, am I not, Revered Daughter? I am unlikely to turn my attention to such things as baking biscuits and decorating pies.”

Crysania removed her hand. “No, I don't suppose you are,” she replied despondently. There was hurt in her expression, and Raistlin wondered if his insult had been in excess. Useless as the cleric was to him now that his plans had been aborted, Raistlin still found that he didn't like to see Crysania this way. The less importance the cleric held for him, the less reason Raistlin had to manipulate her. What was the point of prolonging her suffering? 

He tried to ignore the pang of guilt he felt upon recalling the elder Tasslehoff's words—if Raistlin had continued with his plans, he would have led Crysania to her death. Oh, not that she would have died, but he would have led her to the point of dying and would have left her there, not even staying with her long enough to see if she would indeed draw her last breath. He would have used her, wrung her dry of any speck of utility—he would have taken it all, her faith, her power, her love for him—and it was easy for him to see that now. Tasslehoff's future self had told him, after all, that the cleric had truly loved him throughout all of it, more fool she. 

He could not return those feelings. He no longer had any use for them. 

“Crysania,” he said softly. He beheld her slowly aging, dying face with his hourglass eyes, unblinking, “I do not know what my next endeavor will be. I cannot promise you that it will be for the betterment of Krynn, but I can promise you that neither you nor Elistan need fear that I will return to the path I was on. I have been made to realize the folly of my ambitions, and that they did not benefit me in the way that I had hoped. Whatever my next move is, it will not be against the gods—any of them.”

Crysania considered his words for a moment, “Then we shall not be enemies?”

Raistlin sighed, “No.”

Her face broke into a smile that made Raistlin's heart flutter unexpectedly. She looked truly lovely, if only for a moment. “Good,” Crysania said warmly. She recaptured his hand under the blanket, “I'm glad.”

Raistlin grunted in response, not trusting himself to say anything else.

A thought seemed to strike Crysania, “So does this mean that I can visit you in the future? Here in the Tower, I mean.”

“No,” Raistlin nearly choked on the word, and he was sent into a fit of coughing. “Absolutely,” cough, “not.”

“Why not?” Crysania's reply was indignant.

“The Tower is open to none but myself, and my apprentice,” Raistlin replied once he was able to breath again. “It is not a tavern or a public house to hold meetings in.”

“You have invited me here once before,” Crysania reminded him in earnest, her lips pouted prettily. “Can you not do that again?”

Raistlin sighed wearily, and there was exasperation in his voice, “I do not think Elistan would approve of such an arrangement.”

Crysania blushed, “Oh. Perhaps you are right. Oh, but I must be able to see you again. This isn't goodbye, is it?” She began to grip his hand through the blanket much harder, and she was looking down at where he lay with that damnably caring expression again.

Raistlin wished it could be goodbye. He had no emotional qualms about cutting the cleric out of his life entirely now that his mission was over, but he was loathe to lose the powerful connection that he had in Lady Crysania. If the rumors were true, Elistan was quite ill, and Crysania may soon replace him as the head of the Church. If he rebuffed her, cast her out from the Tower forever, she may make his life difficult further on down the road.

“No, it is not goodbye,” Raistlin said, his voice soft, diplomatic. “I would be happy to meet you at the gates, any time you see fit.”

“The gates?” Crysania frowned, “To the Tower?”

Raistlin nodded, “I cannot very well step foot near the Temple grounds.”

“No, I don't suppose you could,” Crysania conceded. She sighed, “Very well. We can meet at the gates, should we need to discuss anything. I can arrange it through Dalamar?”

“Yes,” Raistlin nodded, already feeling sleepiness begin to overcome him. “My apprentice will correspond on my behalf, you have my word. Now, if you do not mind, I am still much exhausted from the spell.”

“Oh,” Crysania's face pinched, but she soon adopted a more formal expression. “Of course, but, Raistlin, will you not let Caramon see you?”

“Caramon?” Raistlin rasped.

“He's leaving today,” Crysania explained. She continued with a somber mien, “He has changed much since he and I first met. I think he means to return home to Solace.”

“No doubt,” Raistlin said. He agreed that his brother would likely be traveling back to their hometown, there to reunite with his wife and friends, but he was unsure if Caramon had changed as much inwardly as Crysania implied. 

“He was waiting outside before, should I send him in?” Crysania asked. 

He nodded, “Fine.”

Crysania smiled, “I'm sure he would appreciate it.” Her hand lingered on his shoulder as she stood and beheld him with a warm gaze. “Goodbye for now, Raistlin. Paladine's blessing be upon you.”

Raistlin did not meet her gaze, “Goodbye, Revered Daughter.”

The cleric was soon gone, and moments later the door opened to admit a rather sour-faced Caramon. He too must have left the Tower to acquire new clothing (for which Raistlin was grateful; his gladiator costume had been far too garish for modern taste and decency) and stood before his brother's bed with one hand on the hilt of his sword.

“So you are leaving, my brother,” Raistlin said. 

“Yes,” the big man intoned.

“To Solace?” Raistlin continued, “And taking the kender with you I hope?”

Caramon nodded, “Eventually. I'm taking Tas with me to Tanis and Laurana's first. I,” he swallowed, “have some things to work out before I return to Tika.”

“Very well. Safe travels for you then,” his voice was cool, betraying nothing.

Caramon frowned, “And for you, Raist. Look,” he took a few steps closer towards the bed, “I'm not sure why you decided to come back here, and I wish I could say that I was glad. I want to be glad, but,” he stopped, confusion apparent on his doughy face, “I can't help but feel something's very wrong about all of this.”

Raistlin smirked, “You think me incapable of turning over a new leaf.”

“Yes.”

The smirk deepened to a sneer, “You are right, dear brother. It was no change of heart that prompted me to return to our time.”

“Then what was it?”

Raistlin's gaze snapped up to meet Caramon's, “That I cannot say.”

“Lady Crysania seemed to be in high spirits when she left here...”

Raistlin laughed without humor, ignoring the fact that it only made his lungs ache,“Of course she was. She is still under the misguided impression that she was the reason for this change of plans.”

“And you're letting her believe,” Caramon said, brows contracted slightly in anger and mistrust.

Raistlin shrugged, “I can hardly shake any faith of hers. Whether in her god, or in herself. She will believe what she will.”

Caramon's expression darkened, but he soon shook his head, letting out a long sigh. “I'll be leaving soon, Raist. I don't expect you to write,” his face contorted in pain as he said this, likely remembering the letters he had sent to Raistlin over the last two years, letters which the mage had calmly and without hesitation returned, unanswered, “hell I don't expect to see you ever again. But if I hear word that you've harmed her in any way—”

“Harmed her?” Raistlin chuckled. “I think you underestimate the lady, Caramon.”

“Nonetheless,” Caramon continued. “If I hear you've returned to your old ways, I've made up my mind, Raist. I can't stand by and let you have your way with things. I'll be there. I'll stop you.”

Raistlin's mind flashed with the memories the elder Tasslehoff had shared—memories relayed by Caramon himself, of a timeline that would no longer come to pass. Brother against brother. Staff against sword in the Abyss, the Dark Queen's massive form looming on the horizon, waiting to tear Raistlin limb from limb. Five heads of the dragon, each intent on destroying him. He could see the grim determination in his twin's eyes as he stood before him. Yes, that Caramon had been willing to kill him. Was this Caramon, who had only endured a fraction of the same suffering, was he willing to do the same?

Would he ever have the chance?

Raistlin held out his hand to his brother, and Caramon took it with apprehension. They did not shake, only held on to each other for a brief moment before Raistlin broke the connection and began to cough. He had overexerted himself this day. He could stand very little more. 

“Good travels to you, Caramon,” Raistlin repeated, still coughing, his voice ragged and harsh. Was that blood he was coughing up onto his sleeve? “I must,” cough, “rest.”

For once, Caramon did not behold him with pity. To Raistlin's great surprise, he saw...understanding in his brother's eyes. He did not have long to focus on this expression, however, as his coughing only grew worse. 

Caramon did not wait for the spasm to pass. Instead he nodded and said, “And you, Raistlin,” before turning and walking out of the mage's room.

And he was alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter's title comes from another Devin Townsend song, Hyperdrive, off of the ablum Ziltoid the Omniscient. 
> 
> Also, Dalamar fans rejoice! Everyone's favorite apprentice is here. I'm trying (and failing?) to keep him and his shalafi as canon as possible, but damned if they don't flirt sometimes.


	6. Memories of a Time to Come

“Shalafi, this is most unlike you,” Dalamar said as he delivered Raistlin's luncheon. It was a salad of arugula, blackberries, and goat's cheese with tangy vinegar and oil—simple, but pleasing, and easy on Raistlin's delicate stomach. It was a good thing his apprentice was an elf; this was the kind of fare his people preferred, and he was quite expert in its preparation. Raistlin sat up in his bed and began to pick through his lunch, washing it down with sips of the elven wine Dalamar had set by his bedside. Dalamar frowned as he watched his master eat, “If you spend one more day in here I shall begin to fear for my apprenticeship.”

Raistlin nearly choked on the leafy greens in his throat. It was two weeks since his return from Istar, and the mage still spent the entirety of his days in bed. He had recovered from his spell-casting many days ago, but even so, Raistlin had been unable to find the motivation to leave his chambers. Every morning, he woke with the expectation that he would stand and head to his study, there to pick up the pieces of his abruptly derailed life, taking comfort in his spellbooks and maps and magical devices. Yet, every morning, Raistlin somehow managed to stay exactly where he was—in his room, curtains drawn against the sun, buried in a heap of blankets and soft down pillows. 

Dalamar was right. It was most unlike him. Yet knowing this fact did not mean Raistlin was able to correct it. Every time he contemplated his next course of action, Raistlin came up blank. He had no home to return to—the Tower was his home. He had no partner, no friends to speak of, certainly he had no unfinished business with anyone outside of the Conclave—he had made sure to pay all debts and cut all ties with the Heroes of the Lance prior to his coming to the Tower. What would he do now? Where could he turn? Jealousy stabbed hot and sharp at his side. Caramon had a wife to return to. Crysania had the church. Tasslehoff had his adventures. What did Raistlin have?

The magic.

The magic was still his, yes. This thought was soothing and calming, a salve to the wound left by the knife of envy. He had the magic. He would think of something. There must be some task, some great feat, that he could set his ever-restless mind to. Some new endeavor would come along to relieve him of his utter boredom, he was sure of it.

But that had yet to happen.

He had commanded Dalamar to bring him his main set of spellbooks, parchment, quills, and ink, but all sat unused on the far side of the bed. He had instead spent his days leafing through the old, battered volume of slight-of-hand tricks he had procured in his childhood. He still took an odd comfort in their pages, familiar as they were to him. The childhood they recalled may have been an unhappy one, but the moments of joy he had gleaned from these backwater gimmicks had shone out all the brighter for it. 

“You would...leave this place?” Raistlin asked his apprentice, his voice hoarse with disuse, “Leave me?”

Dalamar shrugged, “I came here to learn, and I have learned nothing since your return other than that something must have deeply disturbed you on your journey.”

“If I recall correctly,” Raistlin reminded the elf coolly, “you came here to spy on me.”

“And alas, that need too has been fulfilled,” Dalamar replied in kind.

“Then why are you still here?” Raistlin snapped. By the gods he would teach the elf a lesson if he continued speaking to him so. “A sense of obligation perhaps?”

Dalamar's face was thoughtful, guarded, his dark eyes giving away nothing, “...something like that, yes.”

Raistlin scoffed, “Spare me the sentiment, Dalamar. If you wish to resign as my apprentice, I will not stop you,” for some reason even voicing that possibility nearly caused Raistlin's breath to hitch, “but know that I will first need to take care of some...housekeeping.”

“Housekeeping?” the elf's lips quirked in amusement.

Raistlin nodded, “Of a medical nature, regarding those wounds of yours.”

Dalamar's eyes widened in alarm, “...What about them?”

“They are in need of widening,” Raistlin sneered unpleasantly. “Or perhaps, they could instead be replicated, relocated to someplace far less pleasant. Or a second set could be made to match the first.”

The elf's jaw quaked, “Shalafi, I—”

“Have decided to stay after all?” Raistlin feigned surprise. “If you must, then by all means. Only take care not to overstep your boundaries, my dear apprentice.”

Dalamar nodded, sweat visible on his brow, “Yes, shalafi. I understand. You needn't worry. I'm not going anywhere.”

“Very good,” Raistlin replied, turning his attention back to his meal. Dalamar remained at his bedside, silent but rigid, clearly nervous at his master's outbreak. Raistlin turned to face him, raising an eyebrow in annoyance, “Don't you have studies to attend to, my dear apprentice?”

“Oh, er, yes, shalafi,” Dalamar replied. “Of course. I shall leave you to your meal.” He bowed, and was soon gone in a flurry of black robes, closing the door gingerly behind him.

 

That afternoon saw Raistlin finally rising from his bed. He gave his apprentice no credit for this improvement. Raistlin did, in truth, harbor some resentment towards Dalamar for his relationship with his sister, Kitiara, in the timeline described by the elder Tasslehoff. That sting of jealousy was back, but this time, he was not sure which one of them he was jealous of—of Dalamar for being with an attractive woman, or of Kitiara for laying with his attractive apprentice. He did not allow himself to continue down that line of thought, and with careful discipline, he locked away those sentiments behind walls of iron and steel. Raistlin needed to find a new line of study, a new academic endeavor to occupy his mind; he did not need any more distractions of the flesh.

His first stop of the afternoon was the washing room, where he conjured a bath of hot water to fill the large, claw-foot tub that stood at its center. Raistlin stripped off his heavy, velvet robes, and eased himself slowly down into the water, hissing slightly at its warmth. There. This was better than remaining in bed. This was a step above his previous state. He would enjoy himself, relax a bit, before returning to his studies.

There he remained, immersed in his thoughts as much as the water, until it had gone long cold. Raistlin's mind was wholly occupied by visions of the future that would not be. For all it was impossible that it should now come to pass, Raistlin was still haunted by the thought that, should he have continued, should he have seen his plot through to fruition, he would have been met with such a terrible end. The war he would fight to bring them to Zhaman did not concern him, the loss of life, the death of so many men and dwarves, meant nothing. Fistandantilus had made those choices before him. That blood was on his hands, not Raistlin's. What did concern him was the future Caramon and the elder Tasslehoff had seen—that wasteland, that place devoid of hope and light, the charred remnants of Krynn over which Raistlin alone reigned supreme. Raistlin, alone.

It was the loneliness that frightened him.

He smirked as he shifted in the tub. Frightened. Yes, he was afraid, terrified really. The endless void of neither day nor night, the endless longing, yearning, searching for something that would never be, waiting for the light that would never come—Raistlin feared that more than anything else. Death was of no consequence. Death was preferable to that—that—what could he even call it? That Nothing. That complete and utter lack of Anything. A god alone. His world gone. His people gone. Himself... gone. When there was no longer Anyone, how could he be Someone? How could he bring light to a world where light had ceased to exist? How could he bring darkness when there was no longer any light?

Raistlin realized suddenly that he was shaking, causing erratic ripples to appear on the surface of the water. He placed his head in one hand, and willed himself to be still. This was madness. He had averted that future, there was nothing more to fear from it. He would not end up as such, he would not! 

Yet somewhere deep inside, he wasn't so sure.

After all, Raistlin did not entirely understand why his godhood would have been such a failure. He supposed he lacked a certain level of empathy. Even so, Takhisis, the Queen of Darkness, the goddess of all things vile and wicked, lacked the same, and she still was able to create life. The ogres were hers and the goblins, and she had the chromatic dragons too—Why could Raistlin not create dragons of his own? Why could he not create new beasts, new beings who would worship him as they worshiped the Dark Queen? Why, with all the powers of his godhood, could he not breathe life into the world when others could?  
Something deep inside began to whisper the answer, but Raistlin shut it out.

He stood from the bath abruptly, cold water sloughing off of him in streams, spilling and splashing onto the dark stone floor. He would have Dalamar clean that later. For now, he needed to get his mind out of his own head and focus on something else. Hastily, he dried his hair and body with a towel and dressed in a fresh set of black velvet robes. As he lay them out on his bed, Raistlin let his fingers trace over the magical runes embroidered on the sleeves and hems, gratified to feel the sharp tingle of magic that jumped from the thread to his fingertips. Good, the wards were being well-maintained. Perhaps he had   
underestimated Dalamar. The elf had been clever enough to keep the magic fresh without Raistlin's instruction. He would not let his admiration show, however. Raistlin was stingy with his praise, and Dalamar had yet to perform a feat entirely worthy of it.

It was nearly evening by the time Raistlin made his way to his study, which was only just down the corridor from his own chambers. It was here where he, Caramon, Tas, and Crysania had appeared after leaving Istar, and it was here that Raistlin had entertained both his sister and the cleric on their respective visits to his home. It had not received any visitors since, and it was unlikely that it would receive any more for some time. This was just as well, Raistlin thought to himself. He needed no one poking their heads in on his studies, no one to distract him from the magic to which he had devoted his life—No One.

Nothing.

Raistlin sat down in his chair with more force than was necessary and snapped open the nearest book he could reach. It took him a few moments to realize why he was confused—the book was written in Silvanesti, not the language of magic. He puzzled through it for a moment before recalling that he had indeed requested the volume from Dalamar some months prior to the start of his journey, and set it aside with annoyance. In its place he drew forth the thick, leather-bound volume Raistlin had been using for his notations, and opened it carefully to the last entry.

“I will perform the spell tomorrow eve. The stars will be in perfect position to increase the temporal field, and Nuitari will be at his full zenith. My apprentice has already begun the preliminary preparations, and we should be able to proceed without delay. The culmination of months of careful planning is nearly arrived. I need only concern myself with ensuring our cleric arrives intact.”

Raistlin frowned and grabbed a fresh pot of ink and a fine raven quill, and began to make another entry. He had only written a few paragraphs before there came a knock at his study door.

“Enter.”

It was Dalamar, a tray of supper in his hands.

“I thought I heard you in here,” he said, his face betraying a faint pleasure at seeing Raistlin out of bed as he made his way over to the desk. Without further comment, Dalamar unfolded the small, collapsible stand that was stored behind the desk and set the dinner tray on it—sliced apples, a bit of brie, and rolls that smelled of garlic. And wine, of course. Raistlin had few true vices, but he had discovered in recent years that Silvanesti wine was one of them. He reached for the glass, but stopped when he saw that, tucked between the decanter and the basket of bread, were two rolls of parchment, one with a red seal in the shape of a rose and kingfisher, and the other with the symbol of Paladine.

“Strange sigils for our dark tower,” Dalamar mused when he noticed Raistlin's gaze on the missives. “They arrived this afternoon. Honestly, we should make better arrangements with the post. The poor man leaves these at the base of the gates.”

“Does he?” Raistlin replied absentmindedly, already breaking the kingfisher seal. His eyes hungrily scanned the letter, the beginnings of a smirk twisting his features. When he was done, he let out a short, “Ha!” of amusement and handed the parchment to his apprentice. “See where my beloved sister's plans have gotten her now?” He took a sip of wine and watched with self-satisfied mirth as Dalamar read the contents of the letter.

When the elf was done, he turned to Raistlin in surprise, “But shalafi, how did you know of these flying citadels? Of her plans to fly them past the High Clerist tower?”

Raistlin began to fill his plate from the tray. He looked up at Dalamar sharply, his white hair partially obscuring his face, as he answered, “Never you mind that.”

Dalamar still read the parchment, “And now she is backed into a corner in Sanction. The Knights of Solamnia have the city besieged. They are slated to win, and they send you their thanks.” He turned back to Raistlin with undisguised disbelief. “Why?”

“Why what?” the archmage responded flatly.

“Why help the Solamnics?” Dalamar asked, rolling up the parchment and setting it back down on the tray. His expression was now more reserved, his shock not quite as apparent as it had been a moment before. He was staring at Raistlin as one who has learned a terrible secret. His dark eyes probed, weighing, evaluating.

Raistlin shrugged, “My design was to hurt my sister, not to help the Solamnics. I have recently come into the knowledge that Kitiara was plotting against me,” he met Dalamar's gaze with icy calm, “So I orchestrated a plot to destroy her.”

Dalamar let out a low whistle, “So you were doing more in that bed than moping about after all.”

Raistlin set down his cutlery with a loud clank, staring daggers at his apprentice. “Your insolence knows no bounds today, it would seem.”

A challenge flashed in Dalamar's eyes, but his voice, when he spoke, was falsely meek, “My apologies, shalafi.” Raistlin expected him to go on, but the elf remained silent, the tension between the two almost as palpable as their magic. What had he been about to say?

Raistlin grabbed the second roll of parchment and began to break its seal. “I will take this letter in private. You are dismissed, apprentice. Return in an hour to collect the tray.”

Dalamar bowed, “Yes, shalafi.”

“Oh, and Dalamar?”

The elf turned, one hand already on the door, “Yes, shalafi?”

Raistlin leaned forward behind the desk, eyes glinting in the firelight, “We shall resume our lessons tomorrow noon. Meet me in the laboratory, and come prepared.”

Excitement and joy flashed briefly across the dark elf's face before he bowed once more and said, cool and collected, “Yes, shalafi, I shall be ready.”

“I'm sure you will be,” Raistlin muttered as he handled the other parchment, already breaking the seal of Paladine that held it shut. Raistlin heard the door close as Dalamar left, and he began to read the letter.

It was from Crysania, as he had expected, and it was mercifully short. She expressed her delight at Raistlin having alerted the Solamnics to his sister's plans and extended to him her personal thanks for saving Palanthas from what surely would have been its ruin should Kitiara have been allowed to fulfill her schemes. Crysania then went on to say that Elistan's ailment was worsening. She wished to meet with Raistlin, but could not be so long gone from Elistan. That suited Raistlin just fine. He had no need to see the cleric, and did not look forward to that inevitable encounter. He wrote a short reply to both letters and, sparing Dalamar another trip, instructed the tower guardians to have them delivered. 

He spent the rest of the night creating a plan for tomorrow's lesson with Dalamar, and returned to his bedchamber at a reasonable hour. When he lay his head upon his pillow, Raistlin's thoughts were pleasantly occupied by the runes, glyphs, and sigils that they would need for their experimentation tomorrow. It was not until he began to drift off into sleep that he could sense the Nothing creeping into the corners of his consciousness. 

Raistlin tried to rouse himself from his impending slumber, but it was too late, and he soon found that he was already asleep, already helplessly trapped within another nightmare.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I began to read these books not long after the big Pokemon craze of the late 90s and early 2000s and for some reason, when I got to the Legends trilogy and the Tower's spectral guardians were introduced, my young mind pictured them all as the pokemon Haunter...And it still does to this day. 20 years later, I still haven't been able to get the mental image of Raistlin and Dalamar surrounded by a fleet of Haunters out of my head. Maybe it's because Haunters also live in a big evil looking tower? Anyway, if I had to put together one of those “What Pokemon would x character have in their lineup?” things, at least one of them would have to have a Haunter for these two.


	7. The Conclave

Dalamar's insolent outbursts were curbed greatly on the resumption of their lessons. Despite his dual purpose as a spy for the Conclave of Wizards, the dark elf had come to follow Raistlin primarily for his vast wealth of knowledge in the magical arts. Raistlin was well aware of this, but all the same, he never let Dalamar forget that he had once plotted against his master. Not that the elf could forget, not with the five, festering sores that Raistlin himself had burned into his chest, but Raistlin liked to make it clear to Dalamar that he did not have Raistlin's full trust. It was a shame, really. Raistlin admired Dalamar as much as he could admire anyone—he was intelligent, charming, gifted in the art, and worked hard to improve himself where improvement was needed.

It also did not hurt that the long-lived elf was immune to Raistlin's accursed vision, but that was decidedly beside the point. 

The two worked well as a team, Raistlin the teacher, Dalamar the pupil, each with his own role to fulfill in their various experiments and academic undertakings. Dalamar's unrestrained pleasure in these endeavors was deeply gratifying for Raistlin to see. Here was one who understood. Here was one who knew what the magic was to him. Raistlin knew little of the dark elf's upbringing, but he suspected that Dalamar had had to make many of the same decisions Raistlin had on his quest for magic and knowledge. They were cut from similar cloths, and this fact showed in their every interaction. There was a mutual buzz between them as they branched off into regions of magic the two had yet to explore. Prior to his stint in Istar, the two mages of the Tower of High Sorcery in Palanthas had focused their efforts primarily on time and the nuances of traveling through it. Now, with that aborted endeavor behind him, Raistlin turned his attention to new topics, new subjects that quite apparently delighted his apprentice. 

Yet, for all that Raistlin knew they could so easily form a kinship based on their shared experiences, Raistlin never allowed their relationship to develop beyond what it already was. They were master and apprentice. Teacher and pupil. Raistlin would not allow them to be anything but. He told himself that this was mostly due to the duplicitous nature of how Dalamar's apprenticeship had begun, but that still, small voice at the back of Raistlin's mind liked to remind him that that was untrue. He had known all along that Dalamar had been sent by the Conclave, and he also knew that Dalamar had a real and true interest in learning from him. 

Why then did he continue to shut his apprentice out?

It was only proper, Raistlin told himself. One does not become friendly with one's underlings. Masters who dally with servants often find themselves in disgrace. What would the world think of him if Raistlin became friendly with his own pupil?

What would the world think...

What world? There is no world.

It was gone.

“And I destroyed it,” Raistlin was startled to hear this phrase escape his lips. He was in the laboratory with Dalamar, who was packing away the materials they had been using for the day's lessons.

The dark elf gave Raistlin a quizzical look, “What was that, shalafi?”

“Nothing,” Raistlin hurriedly began to busy himself with tidying the large stone table at the laboratory's center. “Nothing. I was simply...lost in thought.”

“Ah,” Dalamar said. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see the dark elf stand and stretch, raising his arms high over head and extending his back. They had been sitting for quite some time around the table, and both mages were sore. Dalamar's eyes caught Raistlin staring, and the dark elf smirked alarmingly—the expression come and gone before Raistlin truly had a chance to register it—and he continued. “What are your plans for the evening, shalafi?”

Raistlin frowned, unsure and uncomfortable with whatever the dark elf might be implying, and said, “I have made arrangements to meet with the Conclave. I expected that you knew.”

Dalamar's wince was barely noticeable. 

“No, shalafi, I did not know,” the elf was silent a moment longer before he continued. “You are going alone?”

“Yes, I should have thought that obvious,” Raistlin said. Did Dalamar truly think he would want his apprentice tagging along when he treated with the three dunderheads who governed the wizards? Raistlin's expression turned to a sneer, “Or is it that you have a report to make to the Conclave, and thought it best to travel with me to go and make it?”

“No, Raistlin, I,” Dalamar stopped, apparently catching himself referring to his master by his given name. His gaze fell for a moment, but he soon adopted an expression of frustration that surprised Raistlin. When the dark elf again lifted his gaze, it was marked by a kind of grim determination, “I only meant that it will not be easy to face them after you've—”

“After I've what?” Raistlin interrupted, tone soft but dangerous. “After I've failed? Is that it? Do you fear they will see your master as a failure now that he's returned empty-handed and so pass that black spot onto you?”

“No,” Dalamar answered firmly, not cowed in the slightest by Raistlin's outburst. “I was going to say, after you've decided to pursue other interests. You must admit that what we are currently studying would never be sanctioned by the Conclave either.”

Raistlin was silent for a moment, observing the elf carefully. Dalamar did not flinch under his scrutinizing gaze—he returned the look with simple dignity, unaffected, unafraid to meet Raistlin's eye. Had Dalamar truly already moved past Raistlin's defeat? Or was this some kind of trick to get back into his master's good graces? Why offer to accompany him to Wayreth if it were not to report to his other masters or worse—to gloat over Raistlin's perceived failure?

At length, Raistlin replied, “No, they would not approve of our current line of study any more than the last, however I do not fear anything they have to say on that subject.”

“I know you don't, shalafi,” Dalamar responded with a half-smirk. “I have no doubt of that.” 

Raistlin, ignoring the tight feeling he suddenly felt in his stomach, wondered briefly what the elder Tasslehoff could have told him about Dalamar's future. After the Raistlin of that timeline sacrificed himself to keep the Dark Queen from entering the world, Dalamar would have become the Tower's new master. Raistlin had purposefully prevented the time traveling kender from speaking too much of this future, but now Raistlin found that his curiosity had been piqued. What would Dalamar's fate be if Raistlin were removed from the picture? Would he take a new master, or would his own knowledge be sufficient enough to see him through? He had drive, and ambition, and staring at the self-assured dark elf who dared talk back to his master—Raistlin knew his answer.

“I shall be back before morning,” Raistlin said as he and his apprentice left the laboratory.

“Yes, shalafi,” Dalamar responded, following him out the door and down the few flights of stairs between there and the study. “And if you are not?”

Raistlin turned on the stair to face him, looking up at Dalamar with a bemused expression, “If I am not, then the Conclave shall have more to fear than I can begin to say.”

Dalamar smirked, eyes bright with humor, and replied, “Yes, shalafi, I believe they shall.” 

 

Raistlin appeared outside of Par-Salian's chambers just as night fell. It was early summer, and the Forest of Wayreth was currently enchanted to show a host of fireflies, twinkling as they flitted in and out through the massive old oaks that comprised the wood. Raistlin watched them in their bumbling flight through one of the two tall windows that flanked the entrance to the old man's room, waiting to be called in. He gripped the Staff of Magius tightly. He did not want to be here, this night. He had no fear of the Conclave—indeed they should be afraid of him—but neither did he have any love for them. 

Inside lived the man who had given him his cursed eyesight. It was thanks to him that he could hardly stand to look at most people for longer than a few moments, himself included, preferring not to see them age and wither and die before him. Par-Salian had given him the Staff of Magius as a kind of consolation for this curse, but Raistlin did not consider this an even exchange. The hourglass eyes, which, the old white-robe had said, were meant to teach him empathy and humility, only served to further deepen the chasm that Raistlin had begun to dig between himself and others since before he could remember. It had been difficult enough for Raistlin to make friends as a young man. The results of the Test had only made it more so. What had they been hoping for? That Raistlin would see the dying world and suddenly begin to listen to his all but forgotten conscience? That the sight of so much death and decay would stir something deep inside him?

Wasn't that what had happened in Istar...

Raistlin waved that thought away irritably. The dying world he had seen through the elder Tasslehoff's memories was a thousand times more terrible than what Raistlin saw through his own accursed vision. It was one thing to see time as it naturally affected all things, and another to see himself as the sole source of the world's ultimate destruction. Besides, just because he had corrected his path to avoid what would have been a no-win situation for him didn't mean that Raistlin was about to trade the color of his robes. No, Raistlin decided, his encounter with the time-traveling kender may have changed his plans, but it had not changed him. And he would prove as much to the heads of the Conclave.

Somewhere deep in the Tower of Wayreth, a bell rang out the hour. No sooner had its reverberations diminished than Raistlin heard a man's voice call from within the room.

“Enter, Raistlin Majere.”

The door opened of its own accord, and Raistlin tread into the room with slow, even steps. He wore his hood over his head, and thus was able to see the others' faces without being seen. Par-Salian was there, wearing his robes of white, an old man with long hair the color of his vestments and a grave expression. He stood before his fireplace next to two others, Justarius and Ladonna. The red-robed man looked in even worse humor than Par-Salian, and openly scowled at Raistlin as he came in, while Ladonna's face was impassive. She watched Raistlin's approach with dark eyes that glinted as much as the jewels she wore on each finger. Even her intricately braided hair was pinned here and there by jeweled combs. Raistlin scoffed inwardly. The woman may not use magic to hide her age, but she was certainly using something else to compensate for it.

Reaching the fireplace, Raistlin bowed low—slowly, deliberately, making sure his intended irony was not lost upon them—and said, “Greetings, Heads of the Conclave.”

They each bowed, more respectfully, in turn.

“Greetings, Raistlin Majere,” Par-Salian said. His eyes were a touch wary. “To what do we owe the honor of your visit this night?”

Raistlin smirked within the depths of his hood. He had orchestrated this encounter of his own accord, but had insisted upon holding the meeting at Wayreth rather than at his own Tower in Palanthas for obvious reasons.

“I am here to discuss the findings of my journey through time,” Raistlin replied. “And to formally acknowledge that your plans were thwarted.”

“Our plans?” Justarius said, scowling. “Not yours?”

Raistlin smiled thinly, “My plans were not thwarted, no. Your plans to send Crysania to her death and so prevent me from opening the Portal failed most spectacularly, however.”

“So you have opened it?” Ladonna asked, her low voice betraying a touch of fear.

Raistlin shook his head, “No.”

“Perhaps it would be best if we were to sit down, then, so you may tell us exactly what did happen,” Par-Salian suggested, gesturing to the four chairs that had been placed beside the fireplace.

“Very well,” Raistlin conceded, and all four wizards took their places.

Raistlin first recounted a summary of his own time in the past, prior to Crysania and Caramon's arrival. They were shocked and awed as he told of his apprenticeship with Fistandantilus, as he told of his final encounter with the lich wherein Raistlin succeeded in destroying the renowned wizard and taking his own borrowed life-force. He also recounted the time he had spent in the court of the Kingpriest of Istar, a dark stain upon the floor of the shining Temple, and the influence he had been able to sway on the too-pious man.

“And then you had the kindness to send my cleric and my brother to me,” Raistlin continued his tale caustically. He had lowered his hood, and he was certain his disdain was apparent on his face.

“Your cleric,” Justarius snorted.

Raistlin shrugged, “She would be the first to call herself mine. Even now, she prides herself on my return from Istar, on my decision to abandon the plans I had lain.”

“And she was not the reason for your return?” Par-Salian asked.

Raistlin's lip curled, “She was not. Of that, you can be entirely assured.”

The old man's face crumpled for a moment, but when he spoke, it was with command, “Then what was, Raistlin? Why have you come here? There must be something you wish to tell us.”

Raistlin did not immediately respond. He owed these people nothing. Neither apology, nor explanation. They had had the power to help Raistlin when he had been young. They had had the power to offer him refuge, a place to belong. A place in which to grow and thrive. Instead of becoming his refuge, however, Wayreth had become nothing more to Raistlin than a reminder of his Test—of his own failure, and of the Conclave's. 

He had survived the Test, but he had come out even more of an outcast than he had gone in. 

Deformed, cursed. None would make him their apprentice. None would welcome him into their magical tutelage. He left that place more alone than he had ever been. The magic had not been enough to endear him even to his fellow wizards. And knowing what he had done in the course of the Test—could Raistlin blame them? They had seen him murder his own twin. They had seen jealousy, hot and rampant, course through Raistlin so strongly that he had acted against nature and had killed his own brother. And not only had the Conclave decided to try to teach him a lesson by cursing his eyesight, they had also had the audacity to turn around and use him as a weapon in the coming war. He, their champion. He, who had disgusted them. 

No, Raistlin owed them nothing.

Yet he felt compelled to set the record straight.

The short, glossed-over explanations he had given to his brother and his apprentice would not do for the likes of these. They must know the full extent of their own folly. They must know the truth so that Raistlin could be satisfied that they had been forced to hold up a mirror to their own faces and know what they had each narrowly avoided. 

He cleared his throat.

“The reason for my return,” Raistlin began, voice soft but provocative, “was a time-traveling kender.”

“Tasslehoff Burrfoot,” Par-Salian clarified. “He jumped into the time-traveling spell unbeknownst to us. We did not mean to send him back.”

“No, not that Tasslehoff,” Raistlin replied. He savored the confused silence for a moment longer before continuing. “There was another Tasslehoff.”

 

Raistlin found that he actually quite enjoyed relaying certain parts of the elder Tasslehoff's tale. The three Heads of the Conclave made the most amusing expressions at times, particularly when he relayed the future in which Raistlin would have been successful in his attainment of godhood. Par-Salian's eyes bulged and the color drained from his face as he heard Raistlin relate, quite matter-of-factly, how Raistlin himself had trapped him in a case of stone, turning the man into a soon-to-not-be-living statue as he watched the final battle between the Hourglass God and the Platinum Dragon. When Raistlin told of the twins' confrontation in the Abyss, the old man's eyes filled with sorrow and admiration, mouth agape with pathos, even as Ladonna smirked and Justarius harrumphed with incredulity.

When all was told, when his tale had come to an end, the three Heads of the Conclave sat in ponderous silence. Raistlin, who had taken to his feet at some point during his narrative, returned to his chair near the fireplace and sank deep into its cushions.

“So that's it, then,” Par-Salian broke the silence, looking at Raistlin with hollow, haunted eyes. “Having seen the possible outcomes, you return from your mission empty-handed.”

Raistlin nodded, “If the expression fits, yes. I return only with knowledge, and less power than I had hoped to obtain.”

Par-Salian exchanged glances with Justarius and Ladonna. It was the wizardess who spoke.

“And you trust this kender's memories?” She asked.

Justarius continued, “You do not think he was sent by—”

“By whom?” Raistlin mused caustically. “The Dark Queen?” His lip curled into a sneer. “Is she in command of the kenderkin now?”

“Come now, Raistlin,” Par-Salian reprimanded. He held his balding head in one gnarled, wrinkled hand, “We are only trying to understand our position with absolute certainty.”

“Your position?”

The old man nodded, “Yes. Are we in any danger, or has the decisive moment passed for the Dark Queen's return?”

Raistlin frowned, and continued with annoyance, “It has passed. The kender's foray into the future allowed me to see my sister's plans before they were executed. She is currently detained in Sanction. Without her flying citadels, the dragonarmy is nearly incapacitated; they would not dare attack Palanthas. And without me opening the Portal,” Raistlin's voice was sharp, bitter, “Takhisis has no means of entry into this world.”

“Unless you change your mind,” Justarius said darkly.

Raistlin met the red-robed man's gaze steadily, unblinking as he aged and decayed in his sight, “I have no intentions of doing so.”

Ladonna scoffed, “Forgive us, Raistlin, if we do not believe you. You have made it quite clear that you recognize no master but yourself.” She sat tall and straight-backed in her chair, legs crossed one over the other, neck poised like a snake, “What scruples would you have in lying to us?”

“None,” Raistlin conceded. “Now,” he stood to his feet slowly, using his staff for support, “I have come what I came here to do. If you have no further questions about this incident—not attacks on my integrity, but real questions—then I shall return to my own tower.”

“Raistlin, wait,” Par-Salian commanded.

Raistlin, who had already made several steps towards the door, stopped and turned, “Yes?”

“I wish to speak with you, alone,” Par-Salian added, ignoring the immediate exclamations of protest from his two fellows. He turned to face them, “Justarius, Ladonna, you are dismissed for the evening. I needn't tell you not to breath a word of this to anyone.”

“Of course not, Head Mage,” Ladonna's response was clipped. She stood and bowed before him, her expression unpleasant. “It will remain between us.”

“I will tell no one,” Justarius pledged before he too bowed, and together the red-robe and the black-robe made for the door.

The look Ladonna gave Raistlin as she walked by was cold and stiff, but Raistlin was not fooled. She was afraid. His story had made an impression on the woman; he could see it by the rapidly beating pulse in her neck, by the single bead of sweat that had gathered at the top of her forehead. Justarius, on the other hand, avoided his gaze all together, limping by Raistlin with head bowed and jaw clenched shut. Raistlin made no comment as they opened the door and passed through, closing it behind them with more force than was necessary. The instruments on Par-Salian's desk clinked.

The old man let out a sigh, “Childish of them.”

“Indeed,” Raistlin replied, still standing. His impatience was evident in his voice, “You had something to ask of me?”

“Yes, Raistlin, I have many questions,” Par-Salian said, still sitting and massaging his temple with one hand. He looked ashen, the bags under his eyes suddenly more apparent. “But I don't suppose you would allow me to ask all of them.”

“Likely not.”

“Very well,” Par-Salian shifted in his seat, bringing both hands to rest in his lap. “I shall have to content myself with only one.”

“Yes?”

The old man's eyes met his, “Why did you come here? Why did you tell us this?”

“That was two questions,” Raistlin purred, unable to help himself, “but, as you have guessed, they have the same answer.”

“Which is?”

Raistlin shrugged, “What I already told you. I came to make a report of my findings and tell you that your plans had failed.”

“Yes, but why?” Par-Salian probed. “You have already broken off from the Conclave, a renegade. Why bother making a report as if you are some sort of underling? Why not send—”

“My apprentice?” Raistlin finished, bemused. “I don't believe Dalamar enjoys coming here any more than I do. He did not make out the best by your little game of espionage.”

Par-Salian's face darkened, “He showed us what you did to him, Raistlin. Those wounds were of your own making. The Conclave takes no responsibility for them.”

“Indeed, what does the Conclave take responsibility for?” Raistlin asked, one finger stroking the side of the staff in his hands. “Certainly, it did not take responsibility for the kender who jumped into the time-traveling spell, nor for me being approached by that lich during my Test, nor for Lady Crysania's life, which you so easily used as a bargaining chip.”

Par-Salian sighed heavily, “So you have come here as a warning.”

Raistlin nodded, “I have.”

The old man stood, eyes full of sorrow, “Consider the warning received, then. I don't mind telling you, Raistlin Majere, that I have been contemplating retirement since the end of the last war. Your tale may be the card that forces my hand.”

“I did not come here to ask you to step down,” Raistlin returned acidly. “I do not wish for you to go slinking off into the shadows, avoiding yet another consequence of your own actions. You heard my story, did you not? If I had but attained my godhood, I would have killed you slowly, made you suffer the death of thousands before finally snuffing you out. I despise you, loathe you,” Raistlin stopped suddenly and drew a breath in an attempt to contain himself. The hand that gripped the staff shook.

“Then have you come to kill me, Raistlin?” Par-Salian asked. There was no fear, no feeling at all to his aged face, only a blank look of emptiness in the shadow of longing. 

“I would like nothing more,” Raistlin replied coolly, “except my own sanity. I'm afraid that killing you would do more harm to myself than it would to you.”

Par-Salian's eyes widened slightly in surprise, “Would it? Truly? Have you at last discovered—”

“I have not come here for a lecture,” Raistlin snapped. “Nor am I here to discuss my motives. I have told you of the events that have transpired since leaving our own time, and I have given you my one and only warning. The Conclave must hold itself accountable for the crimes it commits; or I shall become their executioner as well as their judge. Have I made myself clear?”

“You have, Raistlin,” Par-Salian said. He gave a grim smile, “You know, as much as you claim to be acting out of self-preservation, I wonder if that is still true.”

Raistlin's expression did not change, “It is.”

Par-Salian shook his head, “If you insist. I will say only this, from an old man who was foolish enough to think he knew how to help you, who still wishes that he could: I wonder what impact that sort of life has had on your soul, Raistlin.”

“My soul is not your concern,” the mage replied coolly.

“Perhaps it should have been,” Par-Salian frowned. “Perhaps I should have done more when there was still time, when you had a better chance at happiness.”

“You preferred instead to leave me broken, that I may be reforged into a weapon, a tool for you to wield against the growing darkness,” Raistlin returned.

“I did, yes,” Par-Salian admitted. “And who is to say that I should have done differently? You would not be who you are today if I had not groomed you for that task.”

“Perhaps not,” Raistlin said, gaze inscrutable. “But as it is, you have no one to blame but yourself for the state my soul is in.”

The old man smiled sadly, “Now who is shirking responsibility, Raistlin?”

“Not I,” Raistlin replied. “My own blame, I will keep, as you will keep yours.”

This seemed to satisfy Par-Salian, for the white-robe sank back into his chair and let out a long breath through his nose. He was silent a moment before he continued. “I understand.”

“Now if you would excuse me,” Raistlin said. “I will be taking my leave.”

Par-Salian looked up, alarmed, “Leave? Are you sure? It has grown late. You are welcome to stay the night here in the tower, if you wish.”

Raistlin laughed, loud and jeering, “What, you think I have not strength enough to return to Palanthas?”

Par-Salian frowned, “You need not be afraid to show weakness, Raistlin, especially not to an old man like me.”

There was that damned pity again. Raistlin gripped the staff in his hand all the tighter. He could so easily wipe that expression from the white-robe's face, could so easily cause him manifold the pain and suffering he had inflicted upon Raistlin throughout his lifetime. But he did not. As he had said—the result of such an act of revenge would only serve to deepen the pit that had been steadily growing inside of Raistlin, and he had finally begun to realize that that pit was not bottomless. There was something it was digging towards, some vat that, like water, when pierced would flood the hole and drown anything inside of it.

“Goodnight, Master of the Tower,” Raistlin said by way of an answer. Without waiting for further comment, Raistlin cast the flashiest transportation spell he could manage—and was gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Who else has been waiting for Raistlin to get to have his f- you moment with the Conclave? 
> 
> When Raistlin Majere thinks you're morally reprehensible, you know you messed up.


	8. At the Gates

Raistlin was pleasantly surprised to find his apprentice waiting for him upon his return from the Conclave. True, the elf was half-asleep in an armchair, the book he was trying to read slipping slowly from his lap, but he was there to greet his master all the same. Dalamar also had the good graces to not ask Raistlin how the meeting went, both that night and in the days that followed. They simply returned to their routine of independent study by morning, lessons and experimentation in the afternoon, and more study by night. 

Raistlin found it irritatingly difficult to keep the thoughts of his narrowly-missed demise out of his mind. The loneliness. The Nothing. Raistlin began to actively avoid visiting the chamber of the Live Ones, even at times when he could benefit from their powers of scrying. They reminded him too much of the future that almost was—the pitiful results of Raistlin's attempts to play god. It seemed that the Nothing had already been too deeply ingrained in him, even then, to create a healthier form of life. Would he have had more success in their creation if, as Par-Salian had intimated, his soul were not in the sorry state it was in?

His soul.

Confused, fragmented.

He did not regret any of his decisions, for regret implies remorse, and Raistlin certainly felt no need to apologize to anyone for the choices he had made—but still, there was conflict. Like the magnets he had once observed as a child in Master Theobald's classroom. While not magical themselves, the old fraud of a teacher had once used them to demonstrate magical principles. A young Raistlin had once watched, fascinated, as his master's pudgy fingers forced the two small magnets closer and closer together, closer and closer until they could go no further. Raistlin mused, in the dark parts of the night, in the bitter mornings tainted by his nightmares, that his soul was comprised of thousands of tiny magnets, some of which could touch, some of which were so diametrically opposed that they repelled each other, pushing up against others, causing the entire structure to shake and rock.

His soul.

It had been torn by acts of both terrible misdeeds and untold kindness. It had had to endure the path that Raistlin had used to navigate his sordid existence, a path that often waded into dark waters one day and soared into the heavens the next. Raistlin did not fear either extreme. He used them each to his advantage, more-so, perhaps, than anyone. True that Gilean, the god of neutrality, had made this sort of behavior a part of human nature, but how often had Raistlin run from one end of the spectrum to the other?

And it had made perfect sense to him to do so. He was a professional at weighing and measuring the good and the bad of each potential outcome, coolly calculating whether he would benefit more by one choice or another, his own well-being at the center of each calculation. Even in the timeline that Raistlin had avoided—he knew without a doubt that his primary motivation for sacrificing his life to prevent the Dark Queen from entering the world would have been to avoid the Nothing that awaited him should he prevail. His brother and Crysania, and indeed, the world, would have played only a secondary role in that decision. According to Par-Salian, it was this propensity towards walking his own path that had caused such strife in Raistlin's soul. 

And Raistlin did not deny the conflict he felt, not to himself. He may conceal it from all others, but there was no hope that the mage could occlude his innermost thoughts from himself for long. His own misgivings manifested themselves in his dreams, in his nightmares, and dawn often found him in a foul mood, his mind reeling in an ever-restless string of self-analysis until he was able to drown it out with the study of magic. Lately, his reflections revolved around Par-Salian's misguided attempt at giving him counsel. Should Raistlin continue to choose the path that wound back and forth between right and wrong, the path that furthered his own advancement at the cost of inner turmoil, or would he choose a new path, one which took the considerations of the world and its inhabitants more to heart?

Neither sounded appealing to Raistlin.

Even if he did want to change, how could he? He had been forging his own path for so long that following any doctrine not created by himself seemed ridiculous. He did not adhere to rules. He was a renegade of the Conclave, an outcast from society at large. Why should he concern himself with consistency? Why should he change his entire moral compass just because of some old fool's observations? Perhaps he was wrong. Perhaps the turmoil in Raistlin's soul was not because of the conflict he felt over the choices he had made.

Then what was it?

Raistlin had no answer.

Irritably, he threw a long, black cloak over his robes, and made his way out of the Tower. It may have been summer on the rest of the continent, but here in the midst of the Shoikan Grove, the heat seemed to have been sucked down into the earth, a chill vapor rising from the worm-ridden dirt in its stead. There was a perpetual winter in that gloom that not even Raistlin, the Master of the Tower, could be rid of.

He tread rapidly through the wood, focusing on the sound his boots made on the dry earth beneath his feet. He was in no hurry to meet the one who awaited him at the Grove's entrance, but neither did he want to listen to his own thoughts. The rhythm of his step was soothing, and when he arrived at the end of the lane, his mind was once again clear and sharp.

His guest was waiting for him. Crysania stood, in robes of white, hood up against the chill, one hand grasping the medallion of Paladine she wore at her breast. A braid of dark hair cascaded over one shoulder, and was secured by a string of leather at its end. She seemed lost in thought, her lips moving ever-so-slightly—praying, Raistlin no doubt, being so close to to the accursed grove was no easy thing even for one who had received his charm—and she did not seem to notice Raistlin's approach.

He walked to the gate, last year's dead leaves crunching beneath his feet, and stopped, placing his free hand on one of the bars. He could feel magic coursing through it like blood. Twice as tall as he, and constructed of wrought iron, the gates to the grove had been imposing even before they had been cursed. Even after Raistlin's homecoming, they were plagued by the spirit of the wizard who had jumped from the Tower and landed upon their spires. It was this barrier that Raistlin kept between himself and the woman in white, it was this threshold that he would not allow the cleric to cross, even if some part of him wanted her to.

“Lady Crysania,” Raistlin said.

The cleric blinked, coming out of her reverie with a start, “Raistlin,” she smiled. She took a step closer to the gate and placed a hand upon it. “I didn't see you there. The grove is so dark.”

“And I blend right in,” Raistlin smirked. They were directly across from each other, their hands on the same bar of metal. Raistlin inwardly marveled that Crysania had been bold enough to touch the enchanted iron. Her face betrayed no fear, no pain at being in physical contact with an object of such evil, only a subdued pleasure at seeing him again. The wheels in Raistlin's mind turned. Her power had grown. He did not think that she would have been able to withstand that kind of magical contact when they had last parted ways a few weeks hence, charm or no charm. “Lady Crysania, tell me,” Raistlin began, “is Elistan...?”

“Alive, but weak,” Crysania replied, her expression falling. Her eyes became cloudy, and she looked away for a moment, “I have communed with Paladine. He will come very soon to take him.”

“And what will happen to the church?” Raistlin asked.

Her eyes met his, confident, assured, “I will lead it,” she said. “Although there are those who oppose me.”

“There will always be those who oppose you,” Raistlin said softly. He leaned closer to the gate, almost without realizing it, and jerked back suddenly with a small cough that soon grew into a series of larger coughs. He leaned forward to the gate once again as his body was wracked with the force of his coughing, wholly forgetting where he was and who he was with. When the fit passed, he realized that Crysania had reached through the bars of the gate and had rested a hand on his arm. He lifted his gaze and noted with some annoyance that she had moved even closer, their bodies nearly touching on either side of the fence.

“Are you alright?” Lady Crysania asked gently.

“Fine, yes,” Raistlin replied, straightening and stepping back—slowly this time—from the bars. He shirked out of her grasp and looked down at her. “The air of the Shoikan Grove is sometimes difficult to breathe, even for me. I do not relish my time out of the tower.”

Crysania frowned, “Are you sure you won't invite me inside then? I think we would both be more comfortable.”

Raistlin shook his head, “No. We have already discussed this, Lady Crysania. We will hold our meetings here.”

Crysania did not argue, although she clearly would have liked to. She let out a sigh of frustration before continuing, “I suppose you would like to know why I called this meeting in the first place.”

“I would. And the sooner the better,” Raistlin said.

The cleric nodded. Raistlin noticed her face flushing, but her expression was otherwise unchanged, “I called this meeting because I was worried about you—”

“Ha,” Raistlin cut her off with a short, humorless laugh. “Worried about me? This is what you've dragged me from my studies for?”

“Yes,” she replied, indignant. “The city's in an uproar over the news of how you betrayed your sister. Palanthas owes its safety to you. The Lord of the City invited you to a parade in your honor—”

Raistlin laughed again, and Crysania frowned at the harsh, mocking sound. 

“He did invite me, yes. And as you can guess, I turned him down,” he smirked. “Did you honestly expect me to attend such a farce?”

“I had hoped,” Crysania murmured.

Raistlin stepped closer to the gate, leaning in, “Lady Crysania,” he said, and when he continued his tone was harsh, driving his point home, “aside from the obvious geographical location of my tower, I have neither love for nor allegiance to Palanthas. The entire city could burn to the ground for all I care and, as long as the tower were still left standing, it would make no difference to me.”

“You don't mean that,” Crysania returned. Her brows creased, her face flushed with life and vigor. “I know you don't. Why else would you have saved us from the Blue Lady?”

“To teach my sister a lesson,” Raistlin snapped, beginning to lose his patience with the cleric. Now it was his turn to reach through the gate and grab her shoulder. Crysania winced at the contact, but she did not struggle, only stared up at Raistlin with eyes wide and nostrils flared. “With one breath she tried to convince me she was on my side and with the next she sent her death knight after you. She feared us, Crysania. She feared us just as much as the Conclave. And at least those old fools weren't too proud to admit it. Kit knew what she would be up against if we had been successful. She knew the terror that would be my reign—knew that it would mean her end just as it would mean the end of all things.”

Crysania frowned, “You speak of these things as if you knew them. You speak of your godhood as if you had seen it.”

Raistlin could see the shadow of suspicion in her face, and cursed himself for his mistake. He did not want her to know—did not want anyone to know. The Conclave had to be warned. The record had to be set straight. But aside from that, no one must know that he had turned from the path of godhood because of a time-traveling kender from a future that no longer existed. (In the back of his mind, Raistlin wondered, inanely, if the elder Tasslehoff had undone his own existence when he had decided to visit Raistlin back in Istar, or if he still existed in some way and could return to Raistlin's current reality at any given moment with the help of the Device of Time-Travel, or, indeed, if it were even possible for a kender to unmake its own existence considering that it was one of the Graygem races, and thus immune to the rigid flow of fate.) Whatever the case was, Raistlin only foresaw disaster and misunderstanding if the true reason for his change of plans were known in the world. The questions of the general public would be as ceaseless as they were pointless, for Raistlin knew only as much of the future as he had allowed the elder Tasslehoff to divulge. He could tell the world nothing about the future of Krynn in any definitive fashion. Much of what he knew was now subject to change, and he had known little at that.

As for Crysania...Raistlin was still trying to make up his mind on which would be more beneficial to him: allowing her to believe that she had been the cause of his return from Istar, or telling her something closer to the truth. 

The only downside of letting her believe in her delusion was having to withstand her insufferable presence at such meetings as these, but, by letting her believe she had some power over him, Raistlin did not need to worry about the church stepping into his territory. Crysania may someday be his equal, or close to, in power. The less she thought of him as a threat, the better. Raistlin knew that by playing into her need to “convert” him into a better person, he was ensuring that he would never have to rise against her or her order. Powerful as Raistlin was, he could not forget why the Tower of Palanthas had been abandoned in the first place. Given enough time and resources, a powerful army could drive a wizard out of his home—add clerics of Paladine and dragons into the mix, and Raistlin could not be sure that he would be victorious. What if such an attack came while he was weak with one of his almost yearly illnesses? What if they came upon him while he was weak from a major spell? Raistlin had plans for this sort of thing, of course, but an ounce of prevention was worth a pound of cure, and the less Raistlin had to worry about such things, the better.

“I speak of such things because I know myself,” Raistlin replied, releasing her from his grasp. “And I know that I have never trusted my half-sister. Only a fool would.”

“Tanis Half-Elven is reported to have loved her,” Crysania countered.

Raistlin smirked, “As I said. Only a fool would trust her.”

Crysania blushed, “Ah, yes. I had nearly forgotten. Of course you knew Tanis. You've known him for some time, I imagine, and here I am speaking of him like some old gossiping fishwife.”

Raistlin was surprised to feel a twinge of guilt in his stomach. He had never told Crysania anything about his own upbringing, about his days in Solace, and why should he? Why relive the pains of his past to bond himself to someone who he would only end up discarding once he'd attained his goal?

But what was stopping him now?

He had no immediate plans to discard Crysania. Far from it. She would soon become the driving force for good in the city of Palanthas, and by extension, Krynn, while Raistlin would remain the driving force for evil. Raistlin was suddenly daunted by the thought of living the rest of his life as the shadow to her light, the far side of the moon. He had never before contemplated any sort of relationship with the woman long-term—she had never even existed to him in the long-term before. Now he was forced to consider a future wherein she would exist, and what would they be? Friends? Enemies? Something more?

Raistlin was frightened to realize he had no idea, but the reality of the situation was that, for as long as Raistlin intended to live in his tower, he would be in close proximity to her. True, he could hide away in his home and refuse to see her, but what would that accomplish but make the Nothing even stronger? 

The Nothing. It was loneliness. It was isolation. It was screaming into the void that didn't even exist. No, locking himself in the Tower would only invite the Nothing into his waking life. Yet leaving the Tower, meeting with Crysania, being in contact with the outside world—what pleasure could that hold for him? He who had always been shunned, he who had always shunned them right back? He had no idea how such an existence would play out.

Suddenly the Nothing didn't seem so bad.

And that was another problem.

He let out a shuddering sigh, “Do not fret, Lady Crysania. It is quite alright. I have not spoken to Tanis since the thick of the war. It is not unusual that people forget we were longtime companions.”

“Longtime?” Crysania asked, seemingly surprised at this statement.

“Yes,” Raistlin conceded. “He was a resident of Solace since my youth. He and my sister were... an item going back to my teen-aged years.”

Crysania's eyebrows raised, “Truly? I had no idea you had known each other that long.”

“It is no secret knowledge. Astinus has written of it,” Raistlin replied tersely. He could feel the back of his throat tickling again as a breeze blew through the Shoikan Grove. Another coughing fit was imminent. He cleared his throat and continued, “But you did not come here to discuss my past, Lady Crysania.” He cocked his head to one side and gave a sardonic smile, “Have I been able to convince you that you need not worry about my well-being?”

Crysania returned his smirk with a cold smile of her own, “Perhaps. There was one other thing I wished to ask you about.”

“Name it.”

“You and your apprentice,” she started in a tone that made Raistlin's pulse quicken for reasons he was not quite sure of. “What sort of magic are you studying, now that you've abandoned your former plans?”

Inwardly relieved at the question, which Raistlin had expected to be raised sometime throughout their meeting, Raistlin replied, “Nothing that the church need be concerned with, Revered Daughter.”

“I'm afraid that is for the church to decide,” Crysania replied gravely. “By your tight-lipped reply, Raistlin, I can only guess that it is something we would not approve of.”

Raistlin shrugged, “Perhaps, but still I have no intention of telling you what it is that has now captured my attention.”

In truth, Raistlin's attention was not all that absorbed by their current line of study. Necromancy had never held much by way of appeal for Raistlin. He had no fear of death, could think of no one he truly wished to save from its clutches. Not even his mother. Not even himself. Not now that he'd seen the Nothing. That was far worse than death, and even life had begun to lose its particular flavor for Raistlin, these last few weeks. Why, if he didn't have the magic—but he stilled that thought. He had the magic. He had work to do, even if it did not fascinate him as much as it perhaps would have before his little misadventure. Dalamar, at the least, was throwing himself full-heartedly into their research—checking on their “patients” at all intervals of the day and night, writing up detailed analyses on each of these checkups, proposing the next steps to be taken with each one. 

Raistlin was pleased with the elf's enthusiasm, even though it left him with less work to do than he would have liked. Before his journey to the past, Raistlin would have had no problem filling this extra time with study, but now...Now he found that his studies slipped through his fingers like sand or water, too amorphous to hold his attention, too formless to grasp. His thoughts would inexorably turn to the Nothing, and Raistlin had yet to find the subject that would keep those thoughts at bay. 

Crysania accepted this statement with a small sigh, “In that case, I suppose we've reached a stalemate.”

Raistlin nodded, still half-preoccupied with his own thoughts, “Yes. We have.” He realized she was still looking up at him, expecting him to go on, and gave a panicked cough that quickly turned into another fit. He drew forth a handkerchief from his robes and coughed into it, blood and phlegm quickly staining the white cloth. The elder Tasslehoff's account of the battle in the Portal came to his mind. The kender had not seen it with his own eyes, but Raistlin could well picture Lady Crysania's white gown similarly stained as she lay dying in the Abyss—a pathetic image. Would he really have let her die? Would he really have walked away, denying her even the courtesy of remaining with her as she drew her last breath?

“Raistlin, are you okay?” Lady Crysania prompted. He had stopped coughing, and was poised with the handkerchief against his lips, his eyes staring at nothing at all as he became lost in that image.

“Yes,” he answered her question as well as his own. Angry for reasons he did not wish to name, Raistlin stuffed the handkerchief back into its pocket and gave Crysania a perfunctory bow. “If you will excuse me, Revered Daughter, I will be returning to the Tower now.”

Quick as a viper, Crysania clasped his hand through the gate, “Raistlin, wait.”

To his own surprise, he obeyed. He turned to face her and rasped an annoyed, “What?”

“There was that look on your face again,” Lady Crysania said, eyes full of concern. “As if you were seeing...” She stopped, her brows contracting in confusion.

“Things that might have come to pass,” Raistlin finished. He gripped her hand tightly, “You are perceptive, Revered Daughter, do not doubt your abilities. Your god has granted you a wisdom that few have.” He let go of her hand and turned from the gates, taking the Staff of Magius with him, “I will take my leave now, Crysania. Do let me know when you are called to take up Elistan's mantle.”

Crysania looked no less concerned when she replied, “I shall.”

Raistlin nodded and, without another word, walked back into the darkness of the grove.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think the gates are supposed to be closer to the Tower than the grove is, but that's never been how I've pictured it. Please forgive my little bit of head-canon. 
> 
> Also, the “cinematography” of this scene is inspired by James Tissot's painting The Farewell, which I only know because of Valadilenne's Alice in Wonderland fanfic, A Sunny Disposish on ff.net, so shout out to them :)


	9. Autumn Leaves

Summer faded in such a way that Raistlin took no notice of its passing. He spent most of his time indoors, stepping foot outside only when his studies required him to, which was not often. When he did notice autumn, it was by its heraldry. A glance outside revealed that the trees of Palanthas had begun to turn to yellow and brown, copper and gold. Their autumnal colors did not hold a candle to the majesty of fall in Solace, where the leaves turned brilliant crimson and saffron, the whole vale ablaze with color for a few short weeks before the wind shook them from their boughs. The grand old city of Palanthas was too far north to experience the kind of weather that produced the splendor of the vallenwoods back home; its trees were too small and well-groomed, nothing like the wild beauty of the Plains of Abanasinia.

Home.

Raistlin sneered at himself. Solace had not been his home for many a long year. Since before his Test. Since before he had bargained with the lich Fistandantilus. 

Much had changed since he had last called Solace home.

He was a grown man now, a wizard of the black robes, and the Master of Past and Present. He was the Master of the Tower of High Sorcery in Palanthas, was master to a young elven apprentice. He had knowledge and power that his younger self had only dreamed of, and more wealth than he knew what to do with. He no longer had to pinch coppers, no longer had to darn his socks until they were more darned than not. He no longer had to deal with the children who called him names, who whispered “Sly” just loud enough to ensure that he heard them as he walked past...

Yes, Raistlin decided, his life was much improved from what it had been in Solace. There could be no doubt of that. Why then did every autumn cause Raistlin's feet to itch with the desire to walk beneath its vallenwoods? It was nonsense. He was no elf. He did not listen for the whisper of their boughs nor the songs of their roots. He was not Dalamar, whose banishment from his homeland caused the elf an almost physical pain, especially when the buds and blossoms of spring began to bloom. Raistlin recalled last spring with a scowl. Dalamar had been newly arrived to the Tower at the time, and Raistlin had severely underestimated the impact the change in season would have on the dark elf. Morning found Dalamar outside, standing at the gates to the Tower, face pressed against its iron as he gazed at the magnolia tree further down the abandoned street. The Shoikan Grove, enchanted as it was, went through the seasons only in the most efficient and perfunctory ways possible. Its black, ashy looking leaves grew and fell each year, neither changing color nor blossoming like the lovely little magnolia. Having known Tanis Half-Elven to wax poetic about the glens and meadows of Qualinesti, Raistlin had observed his season-struck apprentice without comment from his vantage point on the Death Walk. He had been appalled to note that Dalamar had spent nearly an hour at the gate before returning inside for his studies, downtrodden and distracted. 

Raistlin was not about to follow his apprentice's example, but he did feel some small seed of unhappiness when he compared the dead, colorless Shoikan grove to his memories of Solace in autumn.

It was easy enough to ignore these memories, however, when he was engrossed in his studies. He and Dalamar were still much occupied with the necromantic arts. It was strange. Their research was nearly opposite to what Raistlin's own had been when he had tried to create the Live Ones, and part of him hoped that by furthering his own knowledge of death, he would likewise further his knowledge of life. Perhaps that would be his next course of study after this—for Raistlin was still not entirely satisfied with their current occupations. His mind wandered as they worked. Sometimes it was because Dalamar had given him a look that, for some unwarranted reason, warmed Raistlin's blood, and other times it was because Raistlin's nightmares had begun to intrude on his daytime sanctum. 

“Shalafi, are you well?” Dalamar would ask him in either case, and Raistlin would swear there was a knowing look in his eye when it was the elf's own doing, or else a shadow of concern when it was not.

“Yes,” Raistlin would snap. “Although I would be better if we returned to the matter at hand.”

“Of course, shalafi,” Dalamar would reply, and the two would slip back into their usual roles as if the interaction had never occurred. 

Raistlin thanked him immensely for this. The Nothing was a considerable foe on its own. He did not need to throw his own desires into the ring. Bad enough that he had to fight the constant threat of becoming lost in visions of his failed godhood, bad enough that he had to fight to keep his mind on the magic, something that Raistlin would never have even fathomed to be possible before. What was happening to him? Why did the occasional exclamation of excitement from his apprentice, the odd smile, the rare laugh, cause Raistlin to want to stop what they were doing and just—just what? Raistlin was unsure. He was always careful to shut those thoughts down before they had the opportunity to form. Just talk? Just...exist?

Perhaps not listening to himself was doing Raistlin more harm than good. He resolved that the next time he began to think these thoughts, he would follow them through, the better to understand the difficulties he was having. Perhaps Dalamar's presence was detrimental to Raistlin's studies, and he would need to be turned loose. Raistlin frowned over his worktable. He did not want that.

Dalamar noticed his frown. They were in the laboratory, sitting on opposite sides of the great stone table. A cadaver lay between them, not terribly fresh, not terribly pleasant to behold. It did not bother Raistlin. He saw worse each day, thanks to the curse that had been placed upon his sight.

“If you have grown tired of my presence, shalafi, you need only say so,” Dalamar said, coolly poised above the body with quill and parchment in hand, “I could retire for the day, if it please you.”

Raistlin scowled, “No, it would not please me. Whatever gave you that idea?”

Dalamar arched an eyebrow and proceed to take his notes, “Forgive me for saying so, but you have done nothing but frown at your spellbook since we began our lesson. And when you are not frowning at your spellbook, you are frowning at me.” His tone was mild, half-jesting.

“I am not,” Raistlin snapped.

Dalamar raised an eyebrow in response, saying nothing.

“And if I am,” the archmage continued, “it is only because we have much work to do before the corpse resumes its decomposition, I cannot keep it in stasis for long. Another day is the most we can hope for.”

“I understand, shalafi,” Dalamar nodded, dutifully continuing to record his observations. They were silent a few moments before the dark elf spoke again. “Have you heard from Lady Crysania?”

Raistlin looked up sharply, “No. I have had no word since Elistan's passing.” He beheld his apprentice with narrowed eyes, “Why?”

Dalamar shrugged and resumed his seat on the other side of the great table, “No reason in particular. I only thought you might benefit from getting out of the Tower.”

“To breathe the fetid air of the Shoikan Grove and speak pleasantries with that foolish woman? I hardly think so,” Raistlin returned with a scoff. He was gratified to see Dalamar give a small smile, his eyes downcast as he attended to his work. Raistlin felt that feeling again. What was it? He willed himself not to shut it out this time, willed it to remain in the pit of his stomach where it had begun. It was warm. It was...friendly? Raistlin frowned. He had been through this before. He would not allow himself to become friendly with his apprentice. “Why in the Abyss would you care if I ever step foot outside this tower?” The question had left Raistlin's lips before he had adequately gauged whether or not he should ask it, and thus Raistlin was surprised when Dalamar raised his gaze to his own.

“Truthfully, shalafi, you have to ask?” the elf's face was guarded, suspicious.

“Humor me,” Raistlin said dryly.

Dalamar set down his quill and sighed, “I would not normally overstep my boundaries as your apprentice to tell you such things, but if you insist...”

“Yes, I do, get on with it,” Raistlin snapped.

Dalamar looked up at him sharply from across the table, “I trust you will not, as you once implied, replicate the wounds you have already given me should I continue?”

“You are free to speak your mind without fear of recompense,” Raistlin agreed, even more annoyed at himself for having asked such a foolish thing to begin with. “You may proceed.”

“Very well,” Dalamar cleared his throat and sat back in his chair, the corpse on the table the only witness to their conversation. “Ever since your return from the past you have been,” he paused, as if choosing his next words carefully, “out of sorts. In worse humor than normal.”

“And?” Raistlin arched an eyebrow, unimpressed.

“And I have been thinking of ways that I might be able to help you out of that ill humor,” the dark elf finished, his expression giving away nothing.

“Such as a rendezvous with the head of the church or the smell of freshly fallen leaves,” Raistlin said caustically.

The elf shrugged, “Better than doing nothing. When I was cast out of Silvanesti,” Dalamar's expression hardened, “I went through such a time. I did not feel like myself. I had the magic, yes, and I did not regret the choices I had made that led to my exile, but all the same, I felt,” he paused again, conflict apparent in his gaze, “fractured. Broken. Looking back on it now, I realize that the magic was the only thing keeping me together. I thought perhaps you might feel the same.”

“I am not broken,” Raistlin's reply was dangerous, his quiet anger ill-disguised. “I can assure you that I am quite whole.” 

Even as he said this, Raistlin knew it was a lie. Hadn't he been musing to himself about the fragmentation of his soul, and hadn't he compared the shards therein to objects of opposing polarity? Struggling with each other, unable to coexist, compromising the entire structure?

Dalamar seemed to sense the deception. His reply was cold, terse, “Of course, shalafi. I did not mean to offend.”

Raistlin was about to give a scathing reply, but hesitated. Part of him understood that he had just betrayed his apprentice's trust. Dalamar had confided a part of himself, just now, and Raistlin had refused to do the same in turn. Honesty deserved honesty. Raistlin knew this. Yet, another part of Raistlin, the part that liked to whisper to him that he was different, of a higher purpose than the elf, told him that such rules did not apply to him, and that he had done nothing wrong. He owed Dalamar nothing. Even if the elf were to bear his soul to him, Raistlin had no obligation to do the same. He would not be vulnerable. He would not. Vulnerability was weakness, and Raistlin would not be weak.

In the end, it was this second voice that won out. Raistlin gave his apprentice a cold smile and stood from the table.

“Perhaps I have tired of your presence after all,” he said. “I shall retire to my chambers for the rest of the day. Do remember to put things away when you are done.”

Dalamar's expression hardened, and for a moment it looked as though the dark elf would argue, but that moment soon passed. “Yes, shalafi,” he said as Raistlin closed the door to the laboratory behind him.

****************************************************

Raistlin looked around himself in confusion. Where was he? What was he doing? Ah yes, the memory came to him sluggishly, as if it were being dragged through some great spider's web, he was in the laboratory, working on his latest “patient” with Dalamar. A stiff, unyielding body lay on the table before him, its head closest to Raistlin. Yes, he remembered now. He had work to do. Scalpel in hand, Raistlin stood from his seat and went to say something to Dalamar, only to discover with some annoyance that the seat across the table was empty. Strange. Where had his apprentice gone?

Shrugging, figuring that the dark elf had some other matter to attend to, Raistlin carried on with his task. He leaned down over the corpse, preparing to slice a line just above where the creature's heart once beat—and stood back, aghast.

It was Caramon on the table. Caramon's corpse he was about to dissect.

“Gods!” Raistlin swore, recoiling in horror.

His eyes swept the room feverishly. No one. Nothing. He was alone, just him and the corpse of his twin. Furiously, Raistlin stalked back to the table. He would have to have a word with Dalamar about where he sourced their subjects. How Dalamar had managed to find Caramon's corpse, Raistlin had no idea, but if his brother were his specimen today, then Raistlin had better stop being squeamish and just get on with his work.

He stood at the edge of the table and raised the scalpel once more. He went to make the incision but stopped, noticing how suddenly thin the pale torso now was. Thin, and golden. 

Raistlin's heart nearly stopped. 

That chest was his own. Those frail arms, his own. That face—Raistlin froze with terror—the face of the corpse was now his own! White hair spilled over the side of the table as his hourglass eyes stared up at the Nothing, his expression fixed into one of abject terror. 

That same look was mirrored on the face of the living Raistlin as he turned away from his body. Panicked, he ran to the door, but it would not open.

“Dalamar!” He shouted, “Let me out! My guardians! I command you!”

Light suddenly flashed from behind him, and Raistlin turned to see the Portal. It was aglow with warm light—shining brilliantly from beneath the shroud that had been placed upon it. A wind seemed to blow through the room, and Raistlin could make out the outline of each of the five dragon heads that screamed their eternal paean to their Queen beneath the billowing fabric.

“Raistlin,” a voice called. Neither male nor female, neither welcoming nor repulsive.

He did not move from the door.

“Raistlin,” it repeated. “Come to me.”

“No!” Raistlin cried. His hand still fumbled with the doorknob behind him. “No!”

“Raistlin,” the voice said, only this time he could detect the Nothing in its tone. “It will be gone. It will all be gone.”

The light of the Portal grew colder. The edges of reality began to fade.

“Raistlin!” it hissed.

The shroud was blown away, the light from the Portal was blinding.

Then all was Nothing.

******************************************************

Raistlin stood at the gates in much the same position he had once observe his apprentice in—both hands on the iron bars, face thrust up and partially through them, staring down the deserted road that led to the Tower. The magnolia tree at the end of the lane was not wearing its spring bloom, but rather its leaves were flushed with delicate yellow and orange. Raistlin stared as they faded and died, over and over, returning to their present state at each blink of his eyelids. If he could only blink fast enough, he would not have to witness their rot. But no—that would be foolish. Even if no one were around to see, Raistlin would never try to cheat his accursed vision in such a way. Besides, by the sounds of the approaching footsteps coming from the Shoikan Grove behind him, Raistlin was no longer alone anyway.

“Shalafi?” Dalamar's voice called out.

Raistlin's shoulders stiffened. He did not turn around as his apprentice approached, but Dalamar came to stand next to him all the same. He wore his hood up against the chilly morning, and beneath that cowl his hair had been pulled back, exposing the sharp intake of his cheekbones. The elf, too, put his hands on the bars of the gate and followed Raistlin's gaze to the distant tree.

“So much for autumn splendor,” Dalamar mused. Although he spoke with an airy tone, Raistlin could still hear the underlying bitterness. “I have seen magnolias far more beautiful in the countryside around Silvanost.”

“I thought the season was a favorite among Qualinesti elves, not Silvanesti,” Raistlin replied. “At least, that is the impression I received from Tanis Half-Elven.”

Dalamar smirked, and Raistlin realized dimly that he rarely got to see the elf in full profile.

“Tanis is not Silvanesti,” Dalamar said, eyes still fixed on the tree.

“True,” Raistlin conceded, and for a few moments, the two were pleasantly silent. It was odd, standing there in such a...companionable way with his apprentice. Raistlin felt relaxed, unagitated. He hadn't felt anything like this since—since earlier in the war certainly, if not before. There was nothing to do but simply exist. And someone to exist with.

“Shalafi.”

Raistlin winced. That hadn't lasted long. He turned to his apprentice with a severe expression. 

“Yes?”

Dalamar seemed to be aware that he had disturbed the peace, but he continued nonetheless, his voice cautious, “If you don't mind my asking, what are you doing here? Only yesterday you said—”

“I know what I said,” Raistlin snapped. He turned from his apprentice, “I am not here to meet with Lady Crysania, nor any one else. I came here to be alone.”

“Ah,” Dalamar replied. His expression immediately closed off, “I shall leave you to your solitude then, shalafi.”

“No,” Raistlin turned and clutched Dalamar's forearm with a speed that surprised him. 

Dalamar's eyebrows raised in surprise, and his dark eyes flickered first to his master's, then to his death-like grip on the elf's arm, “I would be just as happy to stay, shalafi.”

The panic faded. Raistlin released his apprentice and turned back to the gate, letting his head lean against its cold bars and letting out a long, shuddering breath. “Then stay.”

Dalamar nodded, said nothing. He leaned one shoulder against the gate, his casual stance in complete contrast to the look of concern he wore, and waited for Raistlin to continue.

But Raistlin did not continue. Still with his head on the gate, the archmage closed his eyes and willed his inner thoughts to be silent. Why had he done that? It was the elf's choice of words that had unnerved him. Solitude. He would leave him to his solitude. He would leave him alone. Alone. Just as he had been in that dream. Just him, and the Nothing.

The Nothing.

“Perhaps you were right, Dalamar,” Raistlin said at length. He opened his eyes and focused once more on the tree at the end of the lane. When he continued, his voice was flat, “Perhaps I do need to get out of the Tower more.”

Dalamar gave a small smile, “I am glad you think so.” He shifted his weight against the gate. “We can come out here as often as you like. The Grove may be unpleasant, but that magnolia tree isn't half-bad. Who knows,” the elf was smirking, “maybe someday we'll even open the gates and make the fifty foot walk down the road and see it up close.”

Raistlin blinked, “Open the gates?” He frowned, “Why in all the names of the gods did I not think to open the gates?”

Dalamar laughed. It was a lovely sound, sincere and devoid of all mockery, the kind of laugh he had not heard in many long years. Raistlin felt that odd warmth returning to his stomach and turned away from the elf, unsure what else to do, and waited for his mirth to pass.

“We all forget ourselves sometimes,” Dalamar said, still leaning nonchalantly against the gate, facing Raistlin. There was something in his eye that Raistlin could not quite name. Regard? Admiration? He continued, “That's why it's best to have someone around to help you remember.”

“An excellent role for an apprentice,” Raistlin replied. He did not miss the flash of pain that crossed Dalamar's face at this reminder of his position. “As for taking an excursion out of the Tower,” he continued with a small smirk, “I think we can do better than the magnolia tree at the end of the lane.”

Dalamar raised an eyebrow, “I'm sure we can, shalafi. Where do you have in mind?”

Raistlin was silent a moment, weighing one last time the thought that he had been contemplating all morning, the decision he had been trying to make upon first rising from his nightmare-ridden slumber that morning. The risks were many. The rewards...uncertain. Yet Raistlin could not deny that he did indeed have some unfinished business that he had yet to settle. His dream last night had been a clear reminder of that. 

Raistlin's gaze went once again to the orange-tipped magnolia tree, and said, “Solace.”


	10. The New Inn

Caramon wiped the sweat from his brow. It may have been fall, but up high in the boughs of the vallenwoods, the mid-afternoon sun was still just as harsh as it had been all summer. It was a glorious day. Blue skies and fluffy clouds as far as Caramon could see—all the way to the horizon where the waters of Crystalmir Lake met the sky. Beyond the lake, the Kharolis Mountains stood tall and imposing, skirted with the reds and yellows of the trees that climbed their slopes. The sight of them reminded Caramon of when Sturm had lead them through the passage of Prayer's Eye Peak, injured and chasing a phantom stag that none of the others could see. 

That seemed so long ago now. Sturm had been dead these last two years, three this winter, and now all Caramon had of his friend were memories. He smiled. They were good memories, at least. Sturm had been right to stubbornly follow that stag. It had been one of many events that had propelled their adventure into the quest it would eventually become. It had lead to the knight's own sacrifice, to the success of the Whitestone Forces against the dragonarmies. It had lead Caramon to where he was currently standing—on the roof of the Inn of the Last Home, or, what he hoped would soon be the new Inn.

Looking down at his handiwork, expecting to see that he still had many more planks to go, Caramon was startled to discover that he had just hammered the final nail in the final corner of the final room of the Inn. He was done.

“Phew,” Caramon let out a low whistle. “I didn't think I'd finish it today. Tika,” he looked down through the tree branches, which were thick and heavy with their crimson-kissed leaves, searching for his equally crimson-kissed wife. “I should tell Tika.”

Heart beating with excitement, Caramon packed up his materials and made his way to the edge of the roof. Hurriedly, he descended the rope ladder that led to the Inn's first floor and took a step back, surveying his handiwork.

It was just like the old Inn, Caramon thought, but newer. They had tried to use as much of the old Inn as possible in its construction. The stained-glass windows that had not been damaged by the dragon attack had been removed and placed into the frames of the new one, the carved doors and intricate shutters and old-fashioned shingles too had been transplanted, and, as soon as they could, Caramon and Tika would move all the chairs, tables, and booths from the Inn on the ground to the Inn in the tree. Caramon smiled. The patrons of the Inn on the ground had been grumbling ever since Caramon's return that the old place was starting to look like a hoard of kender had just roamed through it—bits and bobs of it disappeared day by day, moving from ground to sky as Caramon worked on the new Inn's construction. Tika would always defend Caramon's pilfering.

“You want the new place to look like the old one don't you?” she would say with her hands on her hips, in that tone that everyone in Solace had come to know and respect.

“Aye, aye,” was always the grudging response.

Well, Caramon thought, beholding the fruit of his labor, the denizens of Solace would soon get what he and Tika had been promising them since the end of the war. The Inn of the Last Home, rebuilt, in the boughs of the vallenwood tree planted by Otik himself (and gently urged to grow strong and tall by a crazy old mage in mouse-colored robes), and Caramon would give Tika something she had been promised—a new home, a proper home, in the Inn itself. 

And she was going to love it.

Unable to contain his excitement any longer, Caramon ran down the stairs that circled the vallenwood's trunk.

“Tika! Tika come see!”

He reached the ground and sprinted to the little, leaning house that he had built two springs ago, which he and Tika had made their makeshift home. The front door was propped open, and inside he could see Tika leaning over the fireplace, poking at something in the iron skillet that had been propped up over the flame. Two feet from the door, the smell hit him. Bacon. And eggs. And toast.

“Mmm!” Caramon stepped into the tiny kitchen and sat down at the rounded table, his purpose forgotten. “Bacon at lunch?”

Tika turned from the fireplace, “Complain, and you won't get any.”

“I'm not complaining,” Caramon was quick to assure her.

“What are you doing here so early anyway?” Tika asked as she filled an earthenware mug with water and set it before her husband. Her nose wrinkled as she frowned, “Don't you have work to do?”

“That's right! Ow—” Caramon jumped up from his chair and hit his head on a low-hanging shelf. He rubbed his head gingerly, “I came here to tell you about the Inn.”

Tika removed the hot skillet from the flames with a thick cloth and set it upon a slab of stone on the table, “What about it?”

“It's done!”

Tika looked up at him, hands still on the skillet handle.

“It is?”

Caramon grinned down at her, “It is.”

“Oh, Caramon!” Tika threw down the rag and threw her arms around her husband. The bacon still sizzled in the pan between them as they embraced above the table. Tika drew back, grinning. “Let's go see it.”

“Sure,” Caramon started to follow her out the door, but hesitated. “What about the bacon?”

Tika laughed, already outside, “It'll be here when you get back. It should cool off, besides.”

Caramon grumbled, but protested no further. He shut the door behind him as he went (the better to ward off the bacon thieves) and followed Tika back up into the vallenwood. They stopped on the small porch that encircled the front of the Inn, arms around each other as they gazed upon the newly finished structure with pride. They stayed like that for several minutes before Tika decided she wanted to inspect the place. Caramon followed her closely as she swept through each room, eyeing it up and down, looking for cracked floorboards or bent nails, or any other signs of poor craftsmanship. She pointed out a few mistakes, here and there, which Caramon would always explain away as being due to the placement of the tree's branches, but which Tika would insist needed to be corrected all the same. Still, Caramon could tell that his wife was thoroughly impressed with his work. Her green eyes flashed, her face was flushed. Her red curls bounced wildly as she flitted in and out of the rooms. 

Her smile only disappeared when she came to -that- room. 

It was placed near the living quarters, and was marked by the symbol of magic, which Caramon had crudely carved in the wood of the door's mantle. The inside had already been furnished with a bed, a chest, and an empty bookshelf. In fact, this room had been the very first Caramon had completed, even before he had ended up in Istar, chasing after his brother and the Lady Crysania. It was Raistlin's room. And it would never be used.

Caramon entered the room after Tika, who was looking at the empty bookcase with a frown. Gently, he placed a hand on her shoulder.

“I'm glad you finished the Inn, Caramon,” Tika said, still looking at the shelf. “I'm glad you didn't let him stop you.”

“He wasn't stopping me, Tika,” Caramon said, encircling both arms around her waist. “I was. I couldn't understand why Raistlin would want to walk his own path. I couldn't understand why he wanted to move on.”

“Do you understand now?” Tika asked, her voice soft and hesitant.

Caramon sighed, “No. Not fully. Things just ended so abruptly in Istar. Don't get me wrong. I'm glad he changed his mind and brought us back to to our time, but I wish I understood his reasons. I know now what he was intending to do, but I don't know why he stopped himself.”

“From being a god?” Tika shivered in his arms. “Who knows? Who knows why your brother does anything. I certainly don't.”

Caramon shook his head, “I'm worried about him.”

“Worried?” Tika turned around and faced him, her expression harsh. “About that, that demon?”

“He's not a demon, Tika,” Caramon tried to explain. “You should have seen him after he brought us back. When we said goodbye it was like,” Caramon fell silent, concentrating on his words, “it was like he could see something I couldn't. It's like he knew something I didn't.”

Tika was unimpressed, “I'm sure he knows many things you don't, Caramon.”

“Not like that,” Caramon said, brows drawn together in confusion, “Something to do with why he decided to return. He looked at me like...like I was someone else.”

Now it was Tika who sighed. She put her hands on his shoulders. “You're not someone else. You're Caramon. My husband. And I'm glad you pulled yourself together and finished this place, no matter the reason. Let's just leave your brother out of this, okay?”

Caramon drew her in and kissed first her forehead, then her hair. “You're right,” he said, although his mind still felt troubled. He looked around the room over the top of Tika's head, and his frown only grew more profound. “I'll leave Raistlin out of this.”

 

The sun was lower in the sky as the couple made their way back down to their little house. When Caramon opened the front door, he let out a strangled cry.

“Caramon!” Tika exclaimed from behind him. “What is it?” 

With a groan, Caramon pushed the door all the way open and stepped to one side, allowing his wife to behold one very contented kender, sitting at their kitchen table next to the now empty skillet, bits of bacon still visible around his mouth.

“Hullo Tika! Hullo Caramon!” Tasslehoff Burrfoot waved his bacon-greasy fingers at them. “Nice to see you here.”

“We live here Tas,” Tika reminded the kender as she took the pan and set it in the sink.

“And who said you could eat my bacon,” Caramon loomed over the kender with a scowl that Flint Fireforge would have been proud of.

“-Your- bacon?” Tas exclaimed, as if he had never before considered the possibility that the food he had found in Caramon and Tika's home might not have been laid out especially for him to eat. “Oh, Caramon, I had no idea this was -your- bacon.”

“Yeah, well,” Caramon grumbled, “It was going to be my bacon.” He sat down at the table across from Tas and leaned back, arms crossed over his broad chest. “It was going to be a reward for finishing work on the Inn.”

Tasslehoff's face lit up, “You finished it?”

Caramon nodded.

“Oh how wonderful!” Tasslehoff exclaimed. He pulled one of Tika's own rags from his pouch and cleaned up the milk (also Tika's) he had just spilled. “And just in time too.”

“In time for what?” Tika asked, leaning against the door. The tiny kitchen had only two chairs.

“For the big group of travelers I passed on the road this morning,” Tas explained excitedly, pocketing the same milk-soggy cloth along with the small cup he had knocked over.

“Travelers?” Caramon prompted.

“Yes! Coming up from the south. Oh, there must have been fifty or more of them, humans mostly, although I did spy some dwarves too, no elves though, from what I could tell, although that's not to say I might not have been mistaken. A few of them were wearing wizard's robes, and you know it's hard to really see a person's face when they're wearing a hood, not that it was even cold enough a morning to be wearing a hood, all things considered, I thought it was a fine morning, for this time of year anyway, and,” as Tas went on, Caramon and Tika exchanged looks. 

“Fifty guests,” Tika said softly, ignoring Tas's chatter. 

“A lot of steel in our coffers,” Caramon agreed reluctantly. “It's too bad the old Inn's in such poor shape.”

“Caramon,” Tika grabbed his shoulder and locked her gaze to his, “We don't need the old Inn any more. We have the new one.”

Caramon's eyebrows shot up, “The new one? But it's empty. It hasn't got any furniture, except in Raistlin's room. And all the ale, all the food, all that's down in the old Inn. There's no way we could move it up to the new Inn today. It's already almost supper time.”

But Tika wasn't listening.

“Tas, how fast was that group traveling?” she leaned down and asked the kender. “When do you think they'd reach Solace?”

“Well, they had carts, so they were going pretty slow,” Tas answered, unfazed by Tika's sudden determined fervor. “But they weren't too far out of town either. I'd say they'd probably get here a few hours after sundown, if they don't stop for the night, that is. If you want I can check one of my maps—”

“No,” Tika and Caramon said together, seeing the kender about to upturn one of his pouches on their kitchen table. 

“Oh, okay then,” Tas mumbled, hurt. “I guess I won't show you.”

Tika was already back in conversation with her husband, “Caramon, you know we need the business; building the new Inn set us back, and we still owe Otik for the materials. I think we could manage it.”

“If we got half the city involved, maybe,” Caramon replied, his tone cautious. Tika had that fiery look in her eyes that sometimes caused the big man to go on the defensive.

“That can be arranged,” Tika said, determined. “Half the city spends three nights a week drinking at the Inn of the Last Home anyway, and if they aren't willing to help us get the new Inn up and running tonight I'll tell them they're limited to just one.”

“Tika,” Caramon was alarmed at how quickly she was moving. “Wait a minute!” She was already disappearing into the back room, their bedroom, and emerged not two minutes later wearing a more comely dress of embroidered green linen over her low-cut blouse, her red curls tied back into an attractive bun. She flounced back into the kitchen, grabbed the still greasy skillet from the counter, and headed out the door.

“Caramon, let's go!” she called to him as she left. “You too, Tas!”

“Sure thing, Tika!” the kender responded gleefully. He stood and grabbed his hoopak, which stood against the counter. “Say, where exactly are we going, Caramon?”

The big man groaned, “To bribe half of Solace to furnish the Inn for us.”

“Oh,” Tas grinned. “Sounds fun!” The kender stopped halfway out the door, turning to Caramon with a frown. “But why the skillet?”

Caramon just shook his head, “You don't want to know.”

 

The skillet, as it turned out, was Tika's not-so-subtle reminder to the friends and neighbors she visited that afternoon that she had been named a Hero of the Lance, a fact that she used to her advantage when asking for their help in preparing the new Inn for its visitors. Having wiped it clean of its bacon grease, Tika brandished the heavy iron skillet in much the same way as she had brandished it against the draconians who had once overrun the town. The denizens of Solace knew (or were mostly certain) that Tika had no intention of using the great pan against them, but the effect was still as Tika desired. Between her, Tas, and Caramon running door to door, most of Solace turned up at the old Inn within the hour and began to move whatever they could carry up into new one.

Caramon and Tika worked alongside them as Otik kept an eye on Tas, dutifully checking his pockets as the kender ran to and fro between the two buildings, seemingly doing nothing but causing trouble and talking so fast that he gave everyone within earshot a headache. Caramon was amazed at how quickly they were making progress. It was not yet sundown, and already most of the beds and other furnishings from the guest rooms had been moved, the new kitchen had been mostly stocked, and the tables and chairs had been mostly transplanted into the Inn in the tree. It looked like they really would get the place up and running before the large party arrived.

But then there arose a problem.

Most of the things they had managed to move could be carried by two people, the bed-frames and tables being two of the more heavy and cumbersome of such objects. Soon enough, they would need to move some of the larger and weightier items—the massive barrels of ale would need to be rolled to a hoist at the new Inn's backside, as would the old kitchen stove and the immense wooden bar itself, which had once been a living bough of the old vallenwood in which the Inn had once stood. Caramon was strong enough to roll the barrels, but it would take some time, even for him. They were as tall as he was and several times as wide. The stove and the bar would take several of their strongest citizens to move, and they would have to get several logs and a plank to roll each to the hoist, and even then, Caramon was unsure that their pulley could handle the weight. 

Tika and Caramon stood at the base of the vallenwood, contemplating this very problem with some of their closest friends.

“We should probably start with the stove,” Dezra said. “We can't very well cook down in the old Inn and bring the food up to the new—it might go cold.”

“No, the ale,” Tika countered. “Running food is easier than running drinks. You don't want to have to carry trays of the stuff up the stairs all night do you?”

“No,” Dezra conceded with a frown. “I don't, but what if the rope breaks?”

“It won't break,” Caramon assured them, “Its the same kind Otik says he used when the old Inn was still up a tree. I just worry about the pulley. If it were Flint or Theros' handiwork, I'd know it would hold. No offense, Baz.” He added hastily.

Baz, a boy wearing a soot-covered apron who looked no older than fifteen, shook his head and replied, “None taken, sir.”

Tika let out a sigh of frustration, “So what do we do?”

Caramon said nothing. The sun was now rapidly descending. It would soon be fully set and, if Tas's calculations had been correct, the party of travelers would reach Solace an hour or two after that. If they came at all. Caramon was still not entirely on board with this whole operation. He had wanted the new Inn of the Last Home to have a proper opening ceremony, a proper celebration to honor its completion and its return to the trees where it belonged, not the stressful, rushed effort it had become thanks to Tika's fervor. Still, Caramon reflected, it was gratifying to see the citizens of Solace rise to the occasion. He had helped many of them get back on their feet in the days immediately following the war, and Caramon was sure this thought was on their minds when they'd decided to answer Tika's call to action—not to mention the fact that the Inn had become a historic landmark to all of Krynn, the very pride of Solace. Everyone was here who could make it. Everyone was helping in whatever way they could, but it was beginning to look like that wouldn't be enough.

“If we had the time, I'd say we should test it on something that won't get damaged if the pulley breaks,” Caramon said slowly. “But as it is...”

“I believe I may have the solution to your predicament, my brother.”

Caramon's heart stopped cold. No. It wasn't. His mind was playing tricks on him. It was the stress, the pressure, that made him hear that voice now when he was most desperate to hear it. He couldn't be here. He just couldn't. Why would he be? Why now?

Sluggish and slow as if in a dream, Caramon turned and found himself face-to-face with his twin.

“Raistlin.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I know in Legends, Caramon is just working on their home up in the tree, and that eventually they add on to it to make the new Inn of the Last Home a few years later, but this is an AU so it's happening sooner ;)


	11. Unexpected Acquaintances

“Raistlin!” Caramon exclaimed, crushing his brother in his embrace. Raistlin winced, waiting for it to pass. For once, Caramon seemed to notice his twin's discomfort, and released him from the bear hug sooner than Raistlin would have expected. Caramon took a few steps back, his expression a mix of joy and confusion, and set a hand on Tika's shoulder. It was only then that the big man's eyes flickered to Dalamar, who stood next to his master with arms folded in the sleeves of his robes, hood down and elven features all too apparent. 

Caramon cleared his throat, “And this is your apprentice...Dal something or other? I remember him from the Conclave.”

“This,” Raistlin replied with bite, “is Dalamar Nightson. Dalamar, this is my brother Caramon Majere and his wife Tika.” 

Dalamar bowed, but did not offer his hand, “Pleasure to see you again.”

“Uh, likewise,” Caramon replied, retracting his own hand and clearing his throat once more. Tika said nothing. She was staring daggers at Raistlin, did not even seem to be aware of the commotion the mages' arrival had caused. The four of them stood in stony silence until Tasslehoff, who had managed to easily escape Otik's watch, came bounding up to them.

“Everything's ready but the big stuff, Caramon, when do you think—Oh my! Raistlin! What are you doing here?” the kender practically ran into Raistlin's knees, and was looking up at him with eyes full of wonder. “Have you come to help with the new Inn?”

“Yes, Tas, I have,” Raistlin replied.

“You have?” Tika asked sharply. She held her iron skillet at her side, Caramon's hand still on her shoulder. “I don't believe it.”

“Certainly that was not our purpose for coming to Solace,” Raistlin returned, looking squarely into her fiery green eyes, “but I believe I can see the predicament you are in. You are in some great hurry to get those things,” he gestured vaguely to where a crowd of citizens stood around the immense barrels of ale, “up there.” He then pointed to the new Inn in the tree. 

“You'll help us move the barrels,” Tika asked dubiously, “and the stove, and the bar too?”

“If you will allow us,” Raistlin replied with a shrug. “I must say it is a marked improvement from the old Inn, since the dragon attack anyway.”

Tika turned to Caramon, who was looking at his brother with a mystified expression.

Dalamar smirked, “I think that's a 'yes,' wouldn't you say so, shalafi?”

Raistlin nodded, “I would say so, yes,” he answered, and, hearing no contradiction from Tika or Caramon, he and Dalamar began to walk towards the old Inn, Tasslehoff following excitedly behind.

“Oh boy! I've never seen Raistlin do magic with ale before!” He exclaimed. He stopped suddenly in his tracks, “Or have I? Hmm. No. I don't think so. I've never even seen him drink an ale now that I think of it. I don't think I've seen him do any kind of magic involving wine or spirits either.”

“Stop your chattering or you won't see it yet,” Raistlin snapped. 

The crowd around the barrels parted instantly at the approach of the two black-robes and the kender. Raistlin had no doubt that the majority of them either recognized him by face or knew him by reputation. He himself spotted familiar faces among them, faces that held much the same suspicion in them as they always had. Many of these same people had once bullied or belittled Raistlin when he had been a boy, had called him names, dubbed him the Sly One, chased him around town. He did his best to ignore these memories. That had been years ago. Raistlin did not expect them to have changed, but neither did he expect himself to let those old wounds bleed anew. He knew he could have power over them, if he so desired, power such that they could not even comprehend. If he wanted, he could make them fear him, loathe him, worship him. He could make them regret that they had ever dared raise a hand to him, that they had ever said such wretched things. But he would not. Just as Raistlin had known that enacting revenge upon Par-Salian for the terrible role he had played in Raistlin's life, so too did he know that to punish the denizens of Solace for his ill-treatment would cause more harm to Raistlin than it would to them. Revenge was not worth the toll it took upon the soul. Raistlin would have to be content with simply knowing that he could enact it, should he want to.

That would have to be satisfaction enough.

He began to inspect the barrels, speaking softly with Dalamar as he did so. It did not take them long to choose the spell they would use to lift the heavy casks, nor to calculate the trajectory they would take. In a matter of minutes, they were ready.

“Tasslehoff,” Raistlin turned to the kender. “Kindly ask the citizens of Solace to stand clear. We would not want any injuries to occur should our magic fail.”

“You've got it, Raistlin. Hey you!” He shouted, beginning to shoo away the crowd like so many chickens. “Out of the way! Barrels coming through!”

Caramon, who had come to stand next to the wizards along with Tika, looked at Raistlin uncertainly, “Should your magic fail?”

“A precaution only, my brother” Raistlin replied, already lining up on opposite sides of the barrels from Dalamar. He smirked, “Rest assured, a task like this is child's play.”

Caramon did not reply, but, apparently recognizing that the magic would soon begin, he took Tika by the arm and pulled her back a few steps, well out of the path of the spell, and waited.

Raistlin hardly noticed, letting the world slip away and focusing his mind only on the magic. There were five barrels, all standing one next to the other in a row, in the shadow of the old Inn. He would move three, while Dalamar would move two. It would be best to cast the spell in unison, to avoid any issues with the barrels knocking into each other. Using hand signals, Raistlin counted down the seconds until the spell should be cast, and was gratified to hear his apprentice's voice begin to chant the words of magic at precisely the same time as Raistlin did.

So concentrated on the magic was he that Raistlin only realized the spell was working when he heard the gasps and awe-struck cries of the crowd. He smiled in spite of himself, and nodded at Dalamar, whom he could see now that the barrels were no longer on the ground between them, and the two wizards began to direct the floating casks up, up, up to the sturdy back porch of the new Inn of the Last Home, where they were gently placed without so much as drop of ale spilled. The crowd, such as it was, gave a few modest cheers. Raistlin heard just as many boos and hisses, however, and saw many of the folk shake their heads, muttering to each other darkly, no doubt, about how they suspected the ale had been poisoned from the spell or some other such nonsense.

Raistlin turned to Caramon, nonplussed, “You mentioned the stove? And the bar?”

Caramon blinked, clearly lost in thought, before replying “Oh, yeah. They're still inside. I'll show you.”

“I remember perfectly well where they are, my brother,” Raistlin replied, but seeing Caramon's face fall, he continued, “but perhaps you could accompany myself and my apprentice inside and explain what this is all about?”

“Sure Raist,” Caramon said, still clearly troubled. He looked to Tika, as if to ask permission, and the red-haired woman nodded.

“You do that. I'll go get the common room together,” she said, speaking to Caramon, not Raistlin. Caramon nodded, and Tika began to walk back toward the new Inn. As she went, Raistlin noted that she rested the hand that was not holding her heavy iron skillet on her lower abdomen.

“Caramon,” Raistlin started to ask.

“Yeah?”

The mage shook his head, “Never mind. Let us get on with our work.”

 

Raistlin and Dalamar spent the next hour in company of Tasslehoff and Caramon, using their magic to move the heavy stove and the lengthy bar-top. Caramon had had to loosen the stove from the wall in which it had been set by hacking at the bricks with a pick before Raistlin and Dalamar were able to float it out and up into the new Inn. As for the bar—it was freestanding, so it didn't need to be unbolted, but unlike the cylindrical barrels, the oblong wooden bar was challenging for Raistlin and Dalamar to maneuver. It was a test of their patience to get the blasted thing out of the old Inn by way of its front door, which took them far longer than it should have, and even once they did get the thing in the air, its shape made it difficult to float. Perhaps if only one of them had been casting, it would have been easier, but as it was, Dalamar controlled his end of the bar with his spell, and Raistlin controlled his own end. If they did not work their magic in unison, the long slab would turn and wobble and topple. 

Thankfully, they were adept enough to complete their task just before the anticipated group of travelers arrived.

Raistlin was unsure why the town had made such a fuss over the group. Comprised mostly of merchants and other purveyors of goods, the fifty or so travelers were from all over the lands between Solace and Pax Tharkas, and were heading north on their way to Haven for their Harvest Home Festival, where they hoped to turn their wares into profit. Caramon had mentioned, as they had worked on moving the stove, that he and Tika still owed some steel for the new Inn's renovation, and that they had hoped this large party would put a significant dent in that balance. Raistlin was unsure if that would be the case. While Tika and Caramon ran too and fro serving their patrons, Raistlin and Dalamar shared a bottle of wine and observed the newly arrived travelers.

They were shabby, ill-dressed, most of them. They had left their carts down by the stables, leaving only a copper for the stable boy between them, and had seemed wholly unimpressed with the hastily painted banner—Now Open, the new Inn of the Last Home!—which hung from the inn's front porch. Quite the contrary, Raistlin heard muttered complaints from the group that the last time they had been to Solace, the inn had still been on the ground, no need to climb all those blasted stairs to reach it, and they would have preferred it had stayed that way. Not to mention that the place seemed almost too new for their liking. Sawdust was visible on the floor in spots, and many of the tables had been placed too close together, owing to the different shape of the new inn's floor-plan. As Tika and her barmaids scampered around the crowded common room, serving ale and running trays of Otik's famed spiced potatoes, Raistlin saw many scowls of annoyance, and few coins clinking on their tables.

“Ungrateful lot,” Dalamar mused, pouring himself another glass of wine. He had, at first, complained to Raistlin that it was not up to par with what they had at the Tower, but seemed to have come around to drinking it all the same. 

“Indeed,” Raistlin replied coldly. It was getting late, and he was beginning to regret this whole trip. He had been away from his studies all afternoon, and for what? So that he could help his lunk of a brother and his wife complete their renovations to the Inn? He hadn't come here to play builder. He'd come here to settle once and for all whatever it was that had grown between him and his twin. He'd come here to fight the Nothing.

Raistlin poured himself another glass. Fight the Nothing. How could he even think of such a thing? The Nothing was not something that could be challenged and fought. It couldn't be conquered. It would always be there, inside him, watching, waiting for the hour when Raistlin would truly forget himself. Then, it would consume him. It would swallow him body and soul. And there would be nothing of him left.

“Shalafi?” Dalamar arched one pristine eyebrow. “Your hand is shaking.”

“So it is,” Raistlin snapped. He sipped his wine and willed himself to be calm. “I do not know how much more of this inanity I can take.”

“Oh, it's not so bad, sitting here, in a quiet corner,” Dalamar responded, his eyes glinting. They had chosen the best seat in the house—in an alcove between the fireplace and a small outcropping of wall. It was private, out of the way, and pleasantly warm.

“Quiet?” Raistlin scoffed.

“For a noisy common room, yes,” Dalamar said easily. He gave Raistlin a smirk, “I know you do not hold much by it, but most people find it refreshing to take a break every once in a while.”

“We do not have the luxury of being most people,” Raistlin replied acidly. “I take no joy in being away from my work, and neither should you, my dear apprentice.”

Dalamar sighed, looking at his wine as he swirled it in his glass, “If it is for one night in a great, great many nights, I do not mind it, but if it is my shalafi's wish that I be angry and taciturn at being away from my spellbook...”

“I do not wish you to be angry or taciturn,” Raistlin looked at him, unsure where the elf was going with this. “I am well aware that you are only here at my request.”

“I thought -you- were here on -my- request,” Dalamar purred. He took another sip of wine. “After all, I was the one who suggested you needed to get out of the Tower.”

Raistlin frowned, “True, although I do not imagine you had Solace in mind when you made that suggestion. What I meant was: you and I are not who we are today because we are in the habit of taking breaks.” He practically spat the last word.

“I know, shalafi,” Dalamar replied, his voice quiet. “But perhaps—wait a moment,” Dalamar stopped abruptly. He sat up straighter in his chair and set his glass down with a clank, “It seems we are not the only mages here this night.”

“Oh?” Raistlin's eyes darted around the common room, but the fire's light only extended so far. Aside from the most immediate tables and the bar, Raistlin could make out nothing but shadowy figures. “Care to tell me where? And who?”

“Two red robes, human,” Dalamar explained, “In the far corner. They had traveling cloaks on before, but they've only just taken them off.”

“Have they seen us?”

“They have,” Dalamar nodded. Raistlin could feel the elf tensing next to him, although he was unsure why. They had nothing to fear, powerful as Raistlin was, unless it had something to do with his apprentice's work with the conclave. Did he fear that he would see a familiar face? “And they're coming over.”

Raistlin sat up in his chair and watched with a cold gaze as two figures emerged from behind the throng of patrons. They were indeed wearing the red robes that marked them as wizards devoted to the goddess of the red moon, Lunitari, but aside from the similar garb, there was nothing else similar between the two humans. One was a woman, short and fat, with waves of ginger-colored hair that fell short of her shoulders. Her face was freckled and rosy, and even as she approached, it was poised in an easy smile that made the apples of her cheeks abundantly apparent. Her companion was a man, of average height and slight of build, with coppery skin and chin-length dark hair which looked like it needed washing. Contrary to his partner, his face showed apprehension as they made their way to Raistlin and Dalamar's table, his mouth set into a frown.

“Moons' blessings to you,” the short woman chirped, coming to stand before them. She had brought her mug of ale with her, and did not seem at all perturbed at the color of their robes. “We didn't expect to see any other wizards here. I'm Lhyss, and this is Dorark,” She beamed at them. “We're newly Tested.”

“Congratulations,” Raistlin said coolly. They looked quite young for having taken the Test, not as young as Raistlin had been, but they could not be more than thirty (still older than he, it was true, but young by the Test's standards).

“Thank you,” the woman, Lhyss, replied, still smiling. “And whom do I have the pleasure of addressing?”

“Oh, stop trying to be coy, Lhyss,” her companion, Dorark, interrupted with a scowl. He looked down at her critically, “This is Raistlin Majere, just as we heard, and we were foolish to have come over and bothered him.”

“I am Raistlin Majere, yes,” the mage replied, “And this is my apprentice, Dalamar. Now that we are acquainted...”

“We'll be leaving you alone now, yes,” Dorark replied, already trying to shove Lhyss back towards their own table, but the stout woman would not budge.

Her smile disappeared, and she looked up at Dorark, indignant, “We will not be leaving them alone. I came to tell them about the curse and by Luni I'm going to do it.”

“Curse?” Dalamar gave Raistlin an amused look. 

“Yes, the Curse of Raelanna,” Lhyss replied, her look suddenly serious. Her eyes, large, brown and earnest, stared deep into Raistlin's, “I think I might be able to help you break it.”

Raistlin's cold expression did not change, “And how would you, a novice, newly Tested, be able to do such a thing?”

“Lhyss, maybe we should go—” Dorark tried to intervene.

But the woman paid him no heed, “Raelanna is a distant relation of mine,” she continued eagerly. Without invitation, she sat down in the chair across from Raistlin, “My mother's great great great aunt or some such thing. We have many of her personal affects, including,” her smile grew, “her professional diary—which I have taken the liberty of reading. She never stopped trying to break the curse, and the notes on her endeavors are quite extensive.”

This piqued Raistlin's interest. He shifted in his chair, leaned forward. He very much doubted the inexperienced red-robe had gleaned anything useful herself from such a document, but if Raistlin were able to view it...

“Do you have it with you? May I see it?” Raistlin asked. 

Lhyss shook her head, “No, I didn't dare bring it to the Tower of Wayreth. We're not allowed any outside items during the Test anyway. It's back home in Palanthas.”

“Palanthas?” Dalamar asked. He gestured for Dorark to sit in the remaining seat, much to Raistlin's ire. He had been hoping to get the information he wanted from the woman quickly, sending them on their way as soon as possible; he did not want to spend any more time with the two novices than was absolutely necessary. 

“Well, Alynthas really,” Lhyss explained, seemingly pleased that the other two mages had decided to let them join their table. “It's a little town a few miles outside of New City, where the family estate is.”

“I am familiar,” Raistlin said dismissively. “Is that where you are headed?”

“Well...” she turned to Dorark.

“We aren't sure,” the dark man said. “We both hail from that area, but now that we're Tested, we'd hoped to find an apprenticeship somewhere.”

“We came across this lot,” Lhyss gestured to the other travelers behind her, “a few days back, and decided to join up with them. Thankfully most of them are sensible, and realize it's safer to travel with a wizard than without. We were only going to stay with them as far as Solace. We figured we'd then head north while they go west to Haven. But we're not entirely committed to that direction.” She paused, a bemused expression on her plump face, “You know, when we overheard the people of Solace say that -you- were here to help with the new Inn, we didn't believe it,” she explained. “What would Raistlin Majere be doing back in Solace now that he's Master of the Tower of High Sorcery of Palanthas? But then we spotted you and your apprentice in the corner, and I just knew I had to come over and tell you about the diary.” She took a long drink of ale and smiled, “Isn't it a wonderful coincidence? It's as if Lunitari herself has guided us to you. Perhaps she wants to break that curse as much as you do.”

“Indeed,” Raistlin's reply was cold. He was distinctly uncomfortable discussing the particulars of his accursed vision with two strangers, mages though they were. As for Lunitari's involvement, Raistlin could not be sure of that. He had turned from that goddess several years ago, and he doubted that he still held a place in her heart. He continued frankly, “I cannot offer you an apprenticeship, nor can I recommend you to anyone, considering that I have broken from the Conclave. I am, however, much interested in this diary. Would you consider delivering it to the Tower in Palanthas? I can, of course, pay you for your trouble.”

“Oh, no need to pay me, heavens no,” Lhyss waved the thought away and chuckled. “It's not in the best condition, I'm afraid, but I'm sure you'll be able to make use it. If I can read it, so can you.”

“I am sure,” Raistlin agreed.

“But Lhyss,” Dorark turned to his companion with a worried look, “Even if we do head straight back to Alynthas, which we hadn't decided yet that we would do, we'd never make it there before winter.”

“Hmm,” Lhyss's doughy face fell. “True.” She took a contemplative sip of ale.

“If I could make a suggestion,” Dalamar said, a look of cunning on his face. “This diary of Raelanna's, it is at your family home, yes? Under lock and key, I imagine?”

“Yes,” Lhyss replied. “That's right.”

Dalamar nodded, “Then would it not be possible for you to send a letter to your family and ask that they turn the diary over to us? Or better yet, you could write such a letter this very night, and we could take it with us to Palanthas via the corridors of magic.”

“I don't know if your brother would...” Dorark began dubiously.

“That's a wonderful idea!” Lhyss exclaimed. She turned to the other red-robe. “Dorark, go get our things. I've got a fresh roll of parchment we can use, and good ink too.”

The man sighed, but did as he was bid. “Sure. Coming right up.”

Lhyss beamed at him as he walked away. It was now nearing midnight, and many of the Inn's patrons had finally begun to clear out. Raistlin could see Caramon wiping mugs out at the bar, not far from where Dorark was collecting their belongings, and for a moment, his eyes locked with Raistlin's, questioning, unsure, before the big man looked away again, returning his attention to his duties. In no time, Dorark returned with their packs, and Lhyss got to work on her letter.

Raistlin watched her with a mixture of impatience and wonder. He was grateful to the woman for offering what was apparently a family heirloom for his own benefit—he certainly had done nothing to deserve such kindness. He had never met this woman in his life, yet here she sat, casually writing a letter so that he, Raistlin Majere, Master of Past and Present, could relieve her brother of a magical artifact that could help rid him of his accursed vision. Raistlin was reminded strongly of Lemuel, the untested mage who had, years ago, given Raistlin his father's own set of spell-books, as the herbalist was not skilled enough in the magic to use them himself. Raistlin had repaid Lemuel by helping rid Haven of the presence of the loathsome charlatans known as the priests of Belzor. If this woman, Lhyss, would not take Raistlin's steel, how was he to repay her? He did not like to leave debts. Raistlin would accept nothing for free. Just as the magic was paid for with mind, soul, and blood, so must all things be bargained for in equal measure.

Lhyss placed her seal on the letter, and handed it over to Raistlin with an eager expression.

“There, show that to my brother Lhyndon, and he'll get you all sorted out,” she beamed. “And tell him that I say hello.”

Raistlin accepted the roll of parchment and deposited it in one of the many inner pockets of his robes, “I will indeed, madam. Thank you.”

“Call me Lhyss,” the woman said with a giggle. 

“Lhyss,” Raistlin said, inwardly a little daunted by the red-robe's easy going nature. She spoke to him as if he were anyone but the most feared man on Krynn. While Dorark had the sense to look at least a touch frightened, there was no fear, no worry in the woman's eyes. Raistlin frowned. It had been years since anyone had looked at him like that. Almost a lifetime. “If you will not accept payment...”

“I will not,” she said cheerily.

“At least allow me to pay your tab,” he offered.

Lhyss shook her head, “Tab's already been paid. Sorry, archmagus.”

Dorark looked distressed at this almost flippant reply, but Raistlin only shrugged.

“Suit yourself,” he said. “But do not be surprised if your brother finds an undisclosed amount of steel on his doorstep one morning.”

Lhyss gave him a sly smile, “And don't be surprised if I tell him it was all your idea and that he can keep it if he pleases. I want none of it.”

Raistlin paused. Clearly he would not be winning this argument. “We have an agreement then?” he asked.

“Fine by me,” Lhyss said. She took a long drink from her mug, tipping it back until there was nothing left to tip, and set down the empty mug with a belch. “Pardon,” she simpered.

Dorark looked mortified, “Lhyss, don't you think we should be turning in for the night?”

“Hmm?” She turned to Dorark, “So soon?”

“It's past midnight,” the man replied, “And I think we've imposed on the archmagus and his apprentice long enough.” He looked as though the two black-robes were liable to smite them on the spot if they overstayed their welcome any further.

Lhyss pouted, then sighed, “Oh, alright. It'll be nice to sleep in a bed again, anyway.” Both red-robes stood. “Speaking of which, are you staying the night? Perhaps we'll see you in the morning.”

Raistlin's eyes flickered to where Caramon and Tika now stood behind the bar, busy stacking the cleaned mugs and glasses against the back wall.

“I do not know,” he replied.

“I see. Well, Lunitari's blessings go with you, if we don't see you again,” Lhyss said, shouldering her pack with a smile. She and Dorark bowed.

Raistlin and Dalamar both returned the bow slightly, still seated, “Nuitari walk with you.” Raistlin said.

Without another word, the nervous Dorark led the way out of the common room, and up the flight of stairs that led to the inn's boarding rooms.

Once they were out of earshot, Dalamar leaned back in his chair and stretched his arms over his head.

“I thought they would never leave,” he complained.

“If you hadn't invited them to sit with us,” Raistlin replied.

“Then we might not have access to Raelanna's diary,” Dalamar finished with a smirk.

“Perhaps not,” Raistlin said, absentminded. He felt oddly...overwhelmed. Overstimulated. What was he doing? Sitting in the Inn of the Last Home in Solace, his apprentice at this side, being offered a valuable document by two young mages who had no business being kind to him, waiting for the supper rush to die down so that he could speak to his twin about what had happened to him in Istar, hoping desperately that that was the reason for the nightmares, the horrifying visions he saw in his sleep—and as Raistlin looked up, he saw the the common was indeed now mostly vacant. Panic suddenly gripped Raistlin's heart. Caramon would be coming over any moment. And he would have to confront him, confront the Nothing. He wasn't ready for this. He never should have come to Solace. Perhaps there was still time for him to leave. Yes, leave this place, and never look back.

Before Raistlin could reach a decision, however, his thoughts were disturbed by the touch of Dalamar's hand on his arm. It was a soft touch, light, though not uncommitted. It was as if Dalamar could sense the dread of the Nothing hovering like a cloud over his master, and was trying to reach him through it. 

Raistlin faced the elf. “What is it?” he snapped.

Dalamar's hand gripped his arm tightly for a moment before loosening his grasp all together, “It looks like your brother is finally ready to speak with you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think we all have someone like Lhyss in our lives, don't we? Super nice but also kind of intimidating because of it? Or am I the only one who gets intimidated by nice people?? 
> 
> Anyway, shout out to Sadie for helping me remember Raelanna's name when the DL Lexicon was failing me <3 You go Glen Coco!


	12. Come Home, Brother

With Dalamar gone to bed, Tika washing dishes in the kitchen, and Tas curled up on a bar stool, fast asleep, Caramon and Raistlin alone occupied the common room. They sat at the same table near the fire where Raistlin had spent the rest of the night, a glass of water before the warrior, a glass of wine before the mage. At first, they said nothing, each staring into the now roaring fire, lost in his own thoughts. It was well past midnight, and Lunitari's light could be seen streaming red through the windows behind them, creating crimson pools on the polished wooden floor.

It was Caramon who broke the silence—with a yawn.

Raistlin raised an eyebrow, “If it is too late my brother...”

“No, I'll be alright,” Caramon assured him, before succumbing to another yawn. He sat back in his chair and shook his head like a dog shaking off water, apparently willing himself to stay alert. He then took a sip of his water, and continued, “It's been a long day, and it'll be an even longer night.”

“Perhaps,” Raistlin said softly, his eyes glinting beneath his hood. The autumn night was cold, the chill of winter already in the air, and the heat from the fire had yet to reach him. “Perhaps not. If you do not wish to speak with me, Caramon, both myself and my apprentice can be gone from this place, and you can retire to your bed.”

“No,” Caramon shook his head, frowning. “I don't want that, Raist. You're here. I don't know why, but...”

“I came to Solace because there is something I wish to discuss with you,” Raistlin replied evenly. “But first, I want you to tell me something.”

“Sure, Raist,” Caramon replied, his expression uncertain.

“When you left the Tower, it seemed that you had,” Raistlin paused, choosing his words carefully, “some understanding of why I had chosen to abandon my plans.”

Caramon frowned, “I thought I did.”

“And what was it that you thought?” Raistlin asked.

Caramon took another hasty drink of his water. “I thought you were trying to deceive us,” he said soberly, avoiding Raistlin's gaze. “I thought you had some ploy, some other way to get what you wanted that didn't involve me or Crysania.”

“And why did you think this?”

Caramon looked pain, as if he were about to be sick, “Do I really have to say it?”

“Yes.”

The big man sighed, “I've seen you do terrible things, Raist. You abandoned us in the Blood Sea. You joined the Dark Queen's forces, took the black robes, took control of your tower. You shut yourself away, shut me out of your life.” His gaze was inward, “But even then, I never thought you'd succumbed to the evil. I never once thought you were lost. That's why,” he blushed, ashamed, “I began to drink. I didn't understand how you could have let yourself go on like that. I thought it was something I did. I thought, Raistlin was only acting this way because I wasn't good enough to him. If I had done something different, if I hadn't paid so much attention to Tika, maybe, maybe then he wouldn't have taken the path that he did. I still thought that way, right up to the day that Lady Crysania left Solace, right up to me being sent back in time.”

“What do you think now?” Raistlin asked softly.

Caramon shook his head, “I don't know what to think. I lost my faith in you, back in Istar. That business with the Barbarian—the Raist I knew would never arrange a murder for his own benefit. And then you tried to turn my friends against me, Kiiri and Pheragas. You were going to make me fight them to the death. What was it you told that old dwarf Arack? 'I don't want a slave who isn't the best.' That's when I began to realize—I was nothing to you. You would used me to my utmost, your brother, your slave. And you would do the same to Crysania. I guess I finally started to see you for what you really are.”

“Which is?”

“Evil,” Caramon said, eyes wide as if astonished at his own proclamation.

Half a second passed before Raistlin's mouth slid into a sneer, “So then you have finally realized it. Well,” he continued as if unaffected, “I am pleased that notion has finally gotten through your thick skull.” Seeing Caramon's hurt frown, Raistlin almost immediately regretted the barb, but betrayed none of this regret to his twin. He adopted another smirk, “So you have given up on me then? I am evil. Irredeemably so. No one can save me. Nothing can.” Raistlin almost choked on his own choice of words. The Nothing. No, that could not save him. It would only destroy him. He saw it, suddenly, his accursed vision slipping only to be replaced by an even more horrifying scene. Death, destruction. The world in ruin, a slow, painful decay before it was finally blinked out of existence by a wave of Raistlin's own hand, leaving him alone—supreme in his power, singular in his might—and utterly, hopelessly, alone.

“Raist?” Caramon's eyes were full of concern.

“Answer me,” Raistlin snapped, irritated at himself for his weakness. He was slipping into such reveries more and more frequently as time passed. The Nothing was growing stronger. He must focus, he must fight it.

“I thought you were lost,” Caramon said gravely. “I thought you would turn on us as soon as you brought us back to our own time. But you haven't,” the conflict in his voice was almost physical. “I thought I'd never see you again. But here you are. Here we are. Now I don't know what to think.”

Raistlin nodded, satisfied with this. He was about to respond when Caramon unexpectedly continued.

“When I was leaving the Tower,” Caramon spoke as if trying to recall a distant memory, “you had this look in your eyes. Like you had just seen something terrible, like you were afraid.” His large eyes found Raistlin's, warm and full of concern.

“Yes, Caramon, I was afraid,” Raistlin said softly, his lips barely forming the words. Unbidden came a flash of the elder Tasslehoff's memories—the blasted land, the acrid rain, his constellation alone in the sky. “I was terrified.”

“Of what?” Caramon prompted.

Raistlin hesitated. It was too late for him to turn from this course, but still he wished that he could. He had promised himself, when the time-traveling kender had first told him his tale, that he would tell no one what he had learned. He had already broken that promise by telling the heads of the Conclave, and he was about to break it again by telling Caramon—but it was not breaking his own oath that made Raistlin's hands tremble beneath the table. It was not the thought of revealing a reality that would no longer be that made Raistlin's heart constrict painfully.

“Caramon,” Raistlin said, “What I am about to tell you must not be repeated to anyone—not to Tanis, nor any of your friends, not even to Tika. There could be dire consequences if you do.”

“Sure, Raist,” Caramon looked dubious.

“Promise me,” Raistlin hoped his twin's promises were more binding than his own. “If you tell anyone, I will know, and you can be assured that there will be consequences. You saw my apprentice in Wayreth. You have seen what I can do. You know what kind of pain I would cause to those you would tell.”

“I understand,” Caramon replied, disappointment in his gaze. Raistlin felt that disappointment like a stab to the stomach, but said nothing.

Fighting the urge to sneer and snarl at his brother, Raistlin instead summoned all the will that he possessed, sat up straighter in his chair, and began, “It happened during the Thirteen Calamities of Istar. It was the night of Yule. I was alone, in my chambers in the Temple, when I received an unexpected visitor.”

 

Caramon was an admirable listener. He never interrupted Raistlin's tale, never made him pause or stop to ask questions. He hung on his twin's every word, his emotions as apparent on his face as if they had been written in ink on his forehead. Wonder, anger, pity, sadness. The big man's eye were wide and open as he listened to Raistlin whisper of the things he had learned through the time-traveling kender's words and memories. He had been moved to tears when Raistlin told of their final encounter in the Abyss, yet still the warrior had kept silent. It was only once Raistlin finished his story and sat back into his chair, coughing slightly from such a long speech, that Caramon dared to say anything.

“Raistlin,” he said, “I'm so sorry.”

Raistlin gave a short, humorless laugh. Lunitari's light had all but disappeared from the common room. Dawn was only a few hours off, and many of the citizens of Solace had already begun to rise. At the bar, Tasslehoff snoozed on, oblivious to his own pivotal role in their conversation. “For what?”

“For,” Caramon struggled to find the words, running a hand through the front of his hair, “everything! You—you could have died. You could have killed so many—I could have lost you.”

“Yes,” Raistlin said with a weary sigh, “You could have. And you may yet still.”

Caramon looked at him, puzzled, frustrated, “What do you mean? You're not planning to challenge the Dark Queen again are you?”

“Of course not,” Raistlin snapped. “Did you not hear me? Do you think I want to become a god now that I know what kind of god I would be? A failure. A disaster. Worse than that. Do you think I want to spend eternity alone, all-knowing and all-seeing when there is nothing left to know or see, nothing left to touch or feel?” He could hear his voice growing thin, could hear the note of desperation in it, but did not care. He laughed again, cold, self-mocking, “No, my brother, you will not lose me to that fate, but you may yet lose me to one that is almost equally as horrid.”

“Why?” Caramon asked, concerned. He leaned forward across the table, brown eyes wide, “What's the matter?”

“The matter is,” Raistlin sneered at himself, “that I have been rendered completely incapable of forgetting the nightmarish visions I saw in that blasted kender's mind! My every sleep is a study in horror and my every waking moment a study in paranoia that that horror will return. I cannot think, I cannot sleep, I can hardly keep my mind on my studies, my magic suffers.” He realized that his hands were trembling again, “For the first time in my life, I do not know what to do with myself, and I am terrified,” he spat the word like it were poison, “of the Nothing that threatens to overcome me.”

“The Nothing?” Caramon asked, brows contracted in gentle confusion.

“Yes,” Raistlin gasped. “That is the only name I can give to the void of infinite emptiness that has begun to seep into every pore of my being. That is the name by which I must call the fate of my failed godhood, which,” he drew a harsh breath “although I turned from the path that would lead to its fruition, still haunts me like the spirit of one damned. And I would rather be damned along with it than one of its victims. I would rather be tortured by her Dark Majesty than haunted by than Nothing. Perhaps that is why Paladine would have granted me eternal slumber,” his tone was bitter, “Perhaps he had some inkling of what would have awaited me should I be allowed to return to the world.”

Caramon frowned, “Who can say what Paladine thinks, or might have thought.” He seemed thoroughly confused whenever Raistlin talked about the future that would no longer be. He shook his head before he continued, “All that matters is that you didn't walk that path. Tas got to you in time. He saved you from making your worst mistake.”

“He didn't save me,” Raistlin sneered, “he condemned me to the Nothing. He showed me my greatest failure and made me live with it when I would have otherwise been allowed to die a peaceful death. He made me see how truly empty I am. How truly alone.”

“You're not alone,” Caramon countered, perfectly sincere. His brown eyes were passionate, determined. “You'll always have me. And you have your apprentice, and Lady Crysania, and,” he stopped, fumbling, “Those two red-robed mages I saw you with earlier.”

Raistlin scoffed, “Two novices looking to get into my good graces. One of them claims to be a distant relation to Raelanna. We shall see if she is telling the truth.”

“Rae—who?”

“The only other person to have suffered the same cursed vision as I have,” Raistlin explained coldly. “Surely I have mentioned her before.”

“Yes, Raist. I remember now,” Caramon said somewhat lamely. He paused, gave a yawn that last a full ten seconds, during which he stretched and flexed his girthy arms. His yawn caused Raistlin's own, and suddenly the Archmage realized just how tired he truly was. 

“What I meant is,” Caramon said, hunched over the table, leaning on his forearms and looking into the embers of the fire with weary eyes, “you don't have to give in to this Nothing. You say that it's loneliness? Then don't be lonely. You say that it's emptiness? Then don't be empty.”

“It is not that simple,” Raistlin replied, terse. “Did you stop drinking because you found you were no longer thirsty?”

“No, maybe not,” the big man said, “but it's worth it to do what you can to fight it. I don't throw down my sword and give up just because an enemy is attacking in a way I don't understand. And neither would you.”

“I know,” Raistlin whispered. He did not know what else to say. He too was staring into the embers, watching as they glowed and died and winked out. Trust Caramon to oversimplify. Trust Caramon to believe that everything would be alright, even when all signs pointed to the contrary. “What would you have me do, Caramon? Cast off the black robes? Give up my magic?”

“No,” Caramon said. “But not plotting to murder me or my friends would be a start.”

“I was not going to.”

“Good, then you've already improved,” Caramon said. He looked mildly uncomfortable, as if he had just remembered something unpleasant about his brother that had only been shallowly buried under his fraternal concern. “As for your magic...”

“Please do not attempt to give me advice on the magic, of all things,” Raistlin said bitterly. “I think that of the two of us, I would be considered the expert.”

“I know,” Caramon said hastily. “I was only going to say that if you can't concentrate on it, maybe try a different...I don't know...er...kind of magic?”

Raistlin gave a small sigh, “You are not completely without perception, my brother,” he said. “I have had the same thought, albeit, more eloquently, in my mind these last few months. Before Istar, all my efforts were concentrated on the creation of the Live Ones.”

“Live Ones? What are those?”

“Exactly as they sound, Caramon. Creatures that I created. Beings brought into existence by magic, and what a sorry existence they have,” Raistlin took a drink from his mostly forgotten wine. “Writhing, gurgling, pathetic masses of flesh. They are useful to me; they help me to see things far and distant, but they are in constant pain, constant suffering.”

“Isn't there anything you could do for them?” Caramon asked.

Raistlin shook his head, “No. I'm afraid creation is more difficult than even one such as I could fathom.” He looked at his brother with an unpleasant smile, “Not all of us are content to procreate in the very basest of ways.”

Caramon blushed, “I haven't managed to—”

“No?” Raistlin interrupted, feigning surprise. “Has she not told you?”

“Told me what?”

“My dear brother, I have seen Tika hold her hand to her abdomen at several intervals this night,” Raistlin explained. “Surely you must have noticed?”

Caramon blinked, comprehension slowly dawning, “No, I hadn't.” Suddenly his eyes widened, full of excitement, “Raist, does that mean—?”

“You are on your way to succeeding in what I have been unable to do,” Raistlin replied, the irony not escaping him. “Creating life.”

“Wow,” Caramon looked stunned. He sat back in his chair, staring at nothing in particular, his eyes glazed and beginning to tear. Raistlin watched him, feeling that stab of jealousy at his side that he so often felt when he was around his brother. Not that Raistlin wanted some whelp of a child, some mewling baby to care for, but he did want to capture the essence of what Caramon had been able to do—create life, create...something.

Something to fight the Nothing, perhaps.

“I'm going to be a father,” Caramon finally said, his voice pitched loud and booming with his excitement. He beamed at Raistlin, “I'm going to be a father!”

“Quiet, Caramon,” Raistlin hissed. “You'll wake the whole Inn.”

“Sorry, Raist,” Caramon replied sheepishly. He looked positively giddy. “I just...we tried—before—but Tika miscarried. And that's when the drinking got even worse, and I was starting to doubt we'd ever be able to—”

“Do not set the cart before the horse, my brother,” Raistlin interrupted, regretting that he had pointed out Tika's pregnancy altogether. “If she miscarried once, she may well do so again.”

“Maybe that's why Tika hasn't told me,” Caramon said, his expression thoughtful.

“Hasn't told you what?”

Both Caramon and Raistlin froze. It was not Tika who had intruded upon their conversation, but rather a curiously alert-looking Tasslehoff Burrfoot. He stood next to their table, bright-eyed as a morning squirrel, looking back and forth between the twins with interest.

“That you're a no good little sneak, is what,” Caramon scolded, looking at Raistlin a touch fearfully. Neither had heard the kender rise from his sleep, neither had seen him cross the common room floor.

“Oh, no, Tika's told me that plenty of times,” Tas chirped, his shrill voice carrying even farther than Caramon's.

“How long have you been awake?” Raistlin demanded.

“Oh, er,” Tas twiddled his fingers nervously, “Let's see. It's been, oh, probably closer to an...hour or two or....maybe more?”

“And what did you hear?” Raistlin hissed, turning toward the kender with undisguised fury. Caramon looked between the two with obvious distress.

“Oh,” Tas shrank a little before the black-robe, “S-something about a future me coming to see you in Istar and...something about you being a god...and a really interesting tale about how you murdered a gnome who was going to be my friend...and you dying and Lady Crysania being blind. Oh, and you said that my future self said that I, that is, that current-day Tasslehoff would have gotten to fly a floating citadel with a gully dwarf and—”

“Enough,” Raistlin interrupted. He rubbed his throbbing temples. This was the last thing he needed.

“That was a very wrong thing you did, Tas,” Caramon was already disciplining the kender in a stern tone that did not befit him. Raistlin scoffed. His brother was already practicing for his future role as a father, it would seem. “You should apologize to Raist and me for eavesdropping.”

“Eavesdropping!” Tasslehoff exclaimed. Raistlin winced at the shrill sound. “Why I never, in all my days as a kender, have ever eavesdropped once, ever.”

“Then what do you call—”

Raistlin stood from his seat and took the Staff of Magius in hand, pointing it so that the crystal globe held fast in the golden dragon's claw was pointing directly at the kender's surprised face.

“Raist—” Caramon stood and tried to intervene.

“Hush, Caramon,” Raistlin replied, neither moving nor taking his eyes off of the kender. He knew just how to deal with his one. He cleared his throat, and continued in a menacing whisper, “Tasslehoff Burrfoot, I hereby curse you with the Spell of Slippery Pouches, first uttered by the great kender mage Ussumberry Icenog, who used it upon the infamous kender thief Sneakyfeet the Lessor, as punishment for his heinous crimes against kenderdom.”

Tas's mouth fell open with shock, “No! Not the Spell of Slippery Pouches!”

“Yes, Tas, the Spell of Slippery Pouches has been placed upon you,” Raistlin continued, taking a step toward the kender and pressing the top of the Staff of Magius against Tasslehoff's forehead for dramatic effect. “And you shall suffer its consequences if...”

“If what?” Tas swallowed, eyes wide with fear.

“If you should repeat a single word of what you heard this night,” Raistlin finished.

“A single word?” Tas looked beside himself with agony. “But I heard so many! I can't possibly remember them all. What if I'm saying words right now?”

“Tas,” Caramon was trying to hold back laughter, and failing. He cleared his throat, trying to pull himself together. “I think what Raistlin means is, you can't tell anyone about the things the other Tasslehoff said, or what he and I talked about tonight.”

“Oh,” Tas's face fell. “Well,” he looked up at Raistlin and sighed, “I suppose I can do that.”

“Excellent,” Raistlin retracted the Staff of Magius from the kender's head and set it back down next to the table. He resumed his seat, “But know that if you should break your promise...”

“Your pouches will all fall right off of you!” Caramon made a frightening motion with his hands. “Bam! And they'll be lost forever!”

Tas looked like he was about to cry, “No! I won't tell anyone, I promise!”

“Then you needn't fear,” Raistlin said dryly.

“Right. Good. I'll just,” Tas took a step back from the table, hands protectively hovering over the seven pouches around his tiny waist. “I'll go see if Otik's up yet. He said he wanted to see me first thing in the morning, and I think it's close enough to morning to wake him.”

“You do that, Tas,” Caramon said gravely. “Just remember: your pouches...”

The kender gave a frightened “Eep!” and scampered out the door like a startled dog. As soon as he was gone, the twins both burst into laughter. Raistlin could hardly believe it. It felt so good. It felt warm and pure and wonderful—it felt like Something. Like all the horror and fear was melting away. He hadn't laughed this deep in ages, real, true, belly laughter such as he hardly ever succumbed to. Laughing with Caramon was even better than the odd chuckle he shared with his apprentice, the feeling in his stomach even warmer, like fine wine or the most potent of dwarf spirits. He felt light, free. Nothing to weigh him down. Nothing to haunt his mind. Nothing...

The Nothing was gone.

At least, for now.

Raistlin's laughter died slowly. Wiping the tears from his eyes, he said to his brother, “I do hope that does the trick.”

Caramon was still chuckling, “I think it will. I've never seen him so terrified.”

“And if not,” Raistlin cleared his throat, trying to regain control of himself, “Whoever is unfortunate enough to hear him explain what happened is sure to think he is mad.”

“Or just spouting kender-tales,” Caramon agreed. He was sitting back in his chair, a pleasant expression on his face. He looked at Raistlin with affection, before his eyes caught sight of the faintest glimpse of sunlight peering through the window. He sighed, “Another sleepless night. We've had our fair share of those, haven't we Raist?” His expression was wistful. He handled his now empty glass of water with a far-off look.

“We have,” Raistlin agreed. “In those days before the war.”

“When you and I were all each other had,” Caramon finished, wiping away a tear even though he was otherwise smiling. “It's not true for either of us anymore, is it?”

Raistlin frowned, his mind going to Crysania's hand on his own, to Dalamar's humor-lit eyes as he laughed softly at some quip his shalafi had made. He sighed, “No, it is not. But that is how it should be.”

“You're right,” Caramon nodded. He stood, stretching again and scratching the day's growth of beard that he had been unable to shave away that night. “Well, Raist. I think we both should try to get a few hours of sleep. You'll need your rest for the return home tomorrow.”

Raistlin looked up at Caramon with astonishment. How had he known? How had he been able to tell Raistlin's intent to leave the next day? And how was he so calm about it? The Caramon that Raistlin knew would have begged him to stay—not just another night, but forever, a permanent fixture of his new life in Solace. But not this Caramon. This Caramon had understood without anything being said at all. 

Perhaps he too had changed, since Istar.

Raistlin stood, using his staff as support. By the gods, he was tired. Yet, weary as he was in body, his spirit felt lighter. His soul felt less conflicted. The Nothing. The Nothing felt distant. It was not gone, not entirely. It had been driven into some dark corner to hide, but this, to Raistlin, was improvement enough. When Caramon showed him to the room marked with the wizard's symbol on its mantle, and saw Dalamar asleep on the floor, curled under a heap of blankets, Raistlin knew he would have no trouble with nightmares this night. Stepping lightly, he shuttered the windows, undressed, and slid into the bed that had been long waiting for him, and quickly fell into a peaceful, dreamless, sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The title of this chapter comes from the song Fine Line, by Paul McCartney, which, as you can guess, is the same song that inspired the name of the fic as a whole. It's always stuck in my mind as a song about these two. If you aren't familiar with it, go ahead and give it a listen. You'll see what I mean. It's eerily fitting. (And a lovely little song regardless.)
> 
> Also, the fic is going to start winding down from here. I don't know how many chapters exactly are left, but we're on a downward slope now, heading toward the finish.


	13. Raspberry Tarts and Tarbean Tea

Raistlin awoke feeling more rested than he had in many long months. It was strange, waking up in a room that was not his own. At first, Raistlin had been utterly confused as to where he was, that is, until his ears detected the clatter and clang of the common room below and the smells of ham and eggs wafted up from the kitchen to greet his nose with surprising seduction. The Inn of the Last Home, now fully restored to the trees, enveloped him like a warm cocoon. The faint sound of rustling leaves in the wind mingled with the noise from below, and the windows let in a golden strip of light where the shutters were just shy of meeting. Directly beneath that light was Dalamar, asleep on the floor beside Raistlin's bed. Or was he? Raistlin thought he detected a flutter of the elf's eyelids as he lay, face towards Raistlin, blankets up to his chin.

“Dalamar?” Raistlin asked, sitting up in his bed. He wore the thin layer of dark fabric that protected his more expensive black velvet robes from his skin.

“Hmm?” the elf mumbled. Slowly, his eyes opened, focusing on Raistlin almost lazily.

“Are you going to get up, or shall I have to find a new apprentice today?” Raistlin rose from his bed and proceeded to get dressed.

“Oh,” this seemed to rouse the elf. Raistlin was gratified to hear the sounds of Dalamar scrambling to his feet behind him as he finished donning his robes. “Yes, my apologies, shalafi,” Dalamar said, a touch of shame in his voice. “I would have awakened you earlier, but you have been sleeping so poorly of late that I thought—”

Raistlin waved a dismissive hand, now facing his apprentice again, “Never mind. You were quite right in what you did, but now it is time that we rise and prepare to leave this place.”

“Yes, shalafi,” Dalamar nodded and proceeded to get dressed as well. Raistlin went through his small pack as he did so, making sure all of their supplies were in order. They did not travel by road, and so needed little by way of provisions, but Raistlin thought it best to be prepared for any unexpected circumstances. It was not likely that they would be unable cast the spell to bring them back to Palanthas, but one never knew, and so the archmagus had insisted they bring with them the usual traveling supplies. 

Satisfied that nothing was missing from their pack (a rare circumstance considering that they were sharing a roof with a kender) Raistlin began to tidy the bed. As he was folding blankets, he noticed that Dalamar had finished dressing, and had begun to look at him with an odd expression.

“Yes, Dalamar?” he asked, not taking his eyes off of his work.

“What are you doing?”

“Making the bed,” Raistlin answered. “What does it look like?”

“I thought that perhaps you would—” Dalamar stopped suddenly.

“Like you to do it for me?” Raistlin surmised. He shook his head, “No need. I can manage.”

“Very well,” Dalamar conceded, that odd look still apparent on his features. It was somewhere between hesitation and curiosity. 

His sharp eyes bore into Raistlin's skull as the archmage went about his task. Honestly, Raistlin had little comprehension of why Dalamar should care if he decided to perform such menial tasks from time to time. True, his apprentice was generally in charge of the more domestic duties around the Tower, but that did not mean that Raistlin was incapable of handling them on his own. He had lived by himself, if only briefly, before taking Dalamar in. He knew how to manage a household. And yet the elf still stared.

“Is there something else you wished to say?” Raistlin turned to his apprentice with annoyance.

“No, no,” Dalamar replied. Although his voice was apologetic, his gaze had lost none of its intensity. “It is nothing, shalafi, but...”

“Yes?”

The dark elf pursed his lips and let out a slow breath, “If I may speak freely...”

“Of course,” Raistlin said.

“You seem,” Dalamar paused, as if unsure of the words he was about to say, “in better spirits this morning than usual. I trust your conversation with your brother was...satisfactory?”

Raistlin was unsure how to answer. He hadn't expected Dalamar to mention anything about last night; his apprentice had thus far kept his distance from Raistlin's personal affairs. Aside from his recommendation that Raistlin leave the Tower from time to time, Dalamar had never attempted to delve into his shalafi's private life. He seemed to have been pointedly avoiding that subject, as was only natural for master and apprentice. But now. If Raistlin responded, if he allowed himself to answer Dalamar's query, they would be crossing lines, wandering into new territory that Raistlin had otherwise marked as off-limits. And there would be no going back.

But what reason -was- there go back?

Back to loneliness. Back to isolation. Back to the Nothing. The wasteland of Raistlin's soul would only expand, his emptiness would only increase, if he continued to treat Dalamar with the same indifference as he had these last few years. Perhaps it wouldn't be so bad, Raistlin mused, to advance from their pupil/teacher relationship. If it was no longer serving him, then what was the point of keeping it in tact? A little friendliness, a little openness, would not hinder Dalamar's magical instruction in any way that Raistlin could reasonably fathom—in fact, it might even help it. And certainly, it would not hinder Raistlin from keeping his distance from the Nothing. The odious thing seemed to be incapable of moving from its dark corner when Raistlin was with someone. It could whisper, and watch, and wait—but it could not touch him. It was there now, Raistlin knew. It had not crept up to him in his sleep, had not moved from its place on the fringes of his mind, and there it would stay as long as Raistlin could keep it at bay, as long as he kept someone by his side—a light to break through the darkness.

“It was satisfactory, yes,” Raistlin murmured. It felt odd, uncomfortable, speaking to him like this. “I do not regret that we came to Solace.”

Dalamar flashed him a charming, half-lidded smile that made Raistlin's stomach knot unexpectedly, “Good. I am glad to hear it, shalafi.”

Raistlin, somewhat panicked, cleared his throat loudly and gestured to the door, “We should be going. I imagine you are hungry?”

“I am,” Dalamar replied, and Raistlin was unsure if the faint laughter in his eyes was directed at him or at something else. 

He willed himself not to feel affronted. “Then let us go,” he said coolly.

“After you, shalafi,” Dalamar insisted, holding the door open for Raistlin, his handsome face graced by a becoming smirk that was only half-noticed as Raistlin passed by him into the hallway. Without another word between them, the two mages made their way down the corridor, down two flights of stairs, and into the common room of the new Inn of the Last Home. It was not nearly as full as it had been last night, although all of the tables had at least one occupant. It seemed that some of the large party of travelers had already risen for the day and moved on, while others lingered behind. The smell of eggs, sausage, and ham was even stronger down here, and now Raistlin could also smell the bitter aroma of tarbean tea and the sweet scent of cinnamon buns.

With nowhere else to go, Raistlin and Dalamar sat at the otherwise empty bar, where the other serving girl—Dezra, if Raistlin remembered correctly—was wiping it down.

“Good morning—oh!” Dezra exclaimed as she lifted her gaze to the mages. “It's you. I'll uh, I'll let Tika know.”

“Before you do,” Raistlin interrupted before the girl could scuttle away, “could you bring me a cup of hot water? It is for my tea.”

“I—”

“Here you go, Raist,” Caramon emerged from the kitchen with something small held between both hands. He placed the steaming mug before his brother, setting it down gingerly. He nodded to Dezra, and the barmaid left to sweep the common room, giving them all backwards glances. “I saw you on the steps and thought you might need it.”

Raistlin accepted the mug gratefully. “Thank you, Caramon,” he murmured. He drew forth the mixture for his tea from the pockets of his robes and began to stir in a few spoonfuls.

Caramon watched him anxiously, “How are you this morning? Are you sure you don't want me to do that?”

Raistlin took a sip of the tea, “I am fine, and I am in no need of assistance. My apprentice, however, looks like he might do with a bit of tarbean tea.”

Dalamar smirked, “Your apprentice would be most thankful for tarbean tea, shalafi, and one of whatever it is that smells so good.”

Caramon looked at the elf like he had only just noticed his existence, “Oh, er, the ham? Eggs? The beans?”

“No, something sweet,” Dalamar countered. Raistlin could see him give an expert sniff, his face drawn in concentration. “Raspberry?”

“Oh, that,” Caramon replied, looking disappointed. “Raspberry tarts. Those are for the luncheon, but I don't suppose Tika would mind if I took one now.”

“Oh yes she would,” Tika herself emerged from the kitchen now, wiping her flour-coated hands on a clean apron before untying it from her waist. She looked at her husband crossly, “Honestly, Caramon, I thought we agreed you'd lay off the sweets before supper, yet here you are plotting to filch them from right under my nose.”

Caramon looked horrified, held his hands up in defense, “No, Tika, I wasn't going to take one for myself! It was for—”

“Me,” Dalamar explained with a tight smile.

“Oh,” Tika turned to face the two black-robes, not so much surprised to see them as perturbed. She hesitated, cleared her throat, and continued in a haughty tone, “Well then, where are my manners? I'll go get one for you.”

“And tarbean tea, if you please,” Dalamar called after her.

Tika returned in half a minute with a tray of various items. From it, she drew forth two plates, one with a rather large-sized raspberry tart which was set before Dalamar, the other a plate of apple, cucumbers, and fish which she set before Raistlin. She then placed a clay mug before the dark elf and poured a fresh cup of the much requested tarbean tea, her lips set into frown. A hunk of fresh-baked bread and a crock of butter was last to be set upon the counter.

“Thank you,” Raistlin said, eyeing the meal with surprise.

“Yes, many thanks,” Dalamar agreed as he raised the tarbean tea to his lips.

Tika mumbled something unintelligible, picked up her tray, and fled back into the kitchen. 

Caramon watched her go with a sigh. “Sorry about that, Raist,” he said.

“It's quite alright,” Raistlin replied, picking through the fish. It tasted fresh, and was seasoned well with lemon and pepper. “May I ask why...?”

“Well, she's mad that you're here, for one,” Caramon explained, his face somewhat flushed, seemingly embarrassed. “She's glad that you helped with the Inn and all, but she's upset that you kept me up all night and thinks you're going to scare away guests. For another, she's mad that you told me about her being...you know.” His face flushed even deeper red, and he suddenly busied himself with wiping down the already clean bar-top. 

“I see,” Raistlin replied, contemplative. “Perhaps that was not my news to tell. As for scaring the guests,” he smirked into his breakfast, “I am unsure how many we can manage to frighten away between now and when we leave, which may be within the hour.”

“So soon?” Caramon asked, his tone cautious.

“Yes, so soon,” Raistlin nodded, locking gazes with his brother.

“Will you be back?”

“...Yes,” Raistlin conceded, hoping that he would not regret this decision. “But likely not for a few months. Perhaps when the baby arrives, if Tika would allow it.”

“Raist, that would be wonderful!” Caramon looked overjoyed at the prospect. Indeed, he had proclaimed this so loud that half the common room had turned to look at them, some with amusement, others with apprehension. Caramon continued at a considerably lower volume, “And Tika wouldn't mind, I'm sure of it. She just needs some time to come around to the idea, you'll see.”

Dalamar turned to Raistlin archly, “Would such visits involve your apprentice? He has always had a soft spot for sweets.” The elf's almost academic expression was undermined by the bit of raspberry tart stuck to the corner of his lips. 

“Such visits may involve my apprentice, if he does not forget to organize the laboratory at month's end as he is supposed to,” Raistlin said, sipping his own tea with a perfectly straight face. 

“Shalafi, I have only forgotten to organize the laboratory once in the two years I have been your pupil,” Dalamar replied, scandalized.

“Then it should not be a problem,” Raistlin replied, still just as serious.

Dalamar's smile—a genuine smile, not sarcastic, not mocking or sardonic—warmed Raistlin so unexpectedly, he almost dropped his fork. He could feel himself blushing, and he quickly buried his face in his teacup, taking a longer sip than was necessary as he waited for the sensation to end. He would have to get used to this sort of thing, this business of not cutting off his own emotions, if he were going to be successful in his battle against the Nothing. It was almost a physical urge, to stunt the development of any feeling that Raistlin did not find useful, and ignoring that urge was more difficult than Raistlin had anticipated. Even now, he felt drained and vulnerable, sitting there before his own apprentice and his twin—actively allowing his emotions to grow.

He wondered how much of these emotions were visible on his face, how easily Caramon and Dalamar could see the thoughts that flickered and flared behind his hourglass eyes. Did they know what he felt? What would they think of him if they did?

“So, I see you stayed the night after all,” a chipper voice interrupted Raistlin's thoughts. He looked up from his tea to see Lhyss, short and stout in her robes of red, the same easy smile on her face as she had worn last night, and Dorark, lanky and tall and frowning, coming down the stairs from the guest rooms.

“Yes,” Raistlin replied, immediately closing off his expression. “But we will not stay another.”

Lhyss smiled, “Neither will we. Just going to eat some breakfast and be on our way.”

“You have decided which direction to take?” Dalamar asked, sipping his tea.

“North,” Lhyss said.

“For now,” Dorark added with a cautionary look at his companion.

Lhyss shrugged, “True enough. We haven't decided how long we'll go north, but that's the direction of the day, as it were.”

“Indeed,” Raistlin said coolly. He set down his tea, “I thank you again for your letter. You can rest assured that I will take advantage of it and ask your brother for the diary of Raelanna. And as you have refused payment...”

“Sure have,” Lhyss said proudly.

“Perhaps you would accept an invitation to the Tower instead?”

Lhyss's mouth fell open, and she stared at the archmage unattractively, “To the...Tower of High Sorcery in Palanthas? Your tower?” Dorark, Dalamar, and Caramon all wore similarly shocked expressions to varying degrees.

“Yes,” Raistlin said, again hoping that he would not regret it. He continued matter-of-factly, “You claim to have read the diary already, have you not? Working with aging volumes is always a challenge, even for one such as myself. I could use someone who is already familiar with the text to assist me.”

Lhyss's brown eyes were wide with delight, “I would love to! Me? Study at the Tower of High Sorcery at Palanthas? Who would have ever thought! Oh, wow!” She was standing with one hand on her forehead, wearing a look of disbelief that quickly turned into a frown. “But what about Dorark? We're a team. We've been studying together since we were kids. Where I go, he goes.”

Raistlin gave a small smile, appreciative of her determination, and said, “He may come too. It will be quite the project. I would not object to more assistance.”

“But shalafi,” Dalamar was frowning deeply at him, a touch of anger in his dark eyes.

“You will, of course, remain my only apprentice,” Raistlin said to the dark elf. “And you are free to continue to pursue our current line of work, or any other that you choose. I, however, would like to widen my focus to include the curse of Raelanna.”

“If you won't take us on as apprentices,” Dorark asked dubiously, “Then what would we be? Won't the Conclave be upset with us?”

It was Dalamar who answered, “As long as you respond whenever they summon you, they won't bat an eyelash at working under Raistlin.” He smirked, “I would know.”

Dorark still looked uncertain, but his dourness could not dampen his companion's spirits.

“So we would be your assistants?” Lhyss asked.

“I suppose that is what we could call it, yes,” Raistlin replied. “Of course, I do not expect you at the Tower immediately, as you have already expressed the will to travel...”

“Oh, but we were traveling to find an apprenticeship,” Lhyss explained. “And we clearly don't need that anymore.”

“Think about it for at least a month,” Raistlin commanded. “If you decide to assist me with my research, send me a letter. Dalamar can arrange for your arrival and your living spaces, and we can, of course, discuss a wage.”

“We would be -paid- assistants?” Lhyss seemed on the verge of fainting.

Raistlin shrugged, “Of course.”

“Dear, sweet Lunitari,” Dorark muttered, exchanging looks of approval with his friend. He then turned to Raistlin with suspicion. “What's the catch?”

Raistlin smiled humorlessly, “Having to put up with me as your master, for one. You can ask Dalamar. I am a teacher who would not be considered easy to please. I will expect much of you, and, if you prove to be unsatisfactory, I will happily eject you from the Tower, no second chances.”

“Hmm,” Dorark seemed to consider this for a moment, but apparently had no other questions. He turned to his companion and said, “We'll have to think about it, archmagus.”

Lhyss sighed, “Well, -he- has to think about it.”

“You will both think about it,” Raistlin instructed. “As I said, give it a month's consideration. If I do not hear from you then, I will begin to look elsewhere for assistance.”

“Deal,” Lhyss held out her small, pudgy hand, which Raistlin took gravely. Her grip was strong, but not crushing, her eyes were determined and intelligent—there was no fear in them, although perhaps, there should have been, at dealing with the Master of Past and Present, just as there had been none last night. There was something special in this one. The magic was strong with her; it just needed a bit of molding, a bit of shaping. The man was less gifted, it seemed to Raistlin, but there was a quiet assurance about Dorark that intrigued Raistlin all the same. Although not as outwardly brave as his companion, he seemed to have more common sense, a trait sorely needed for the study of magic. Raistlin hoped that they would accept the offer. 

Lhyss and Dorark left the bar to eat their breakfast at a table in the back of the common room. Tika served them, having reappeared from the kitchen. She would occasionally glance between the two red-robes and the two black-robes with a questioning gaze, her eyebrows furrowed. Raistlin was suddenly struck by how young she was, she was only what? Twenty-three years old? Married, a child on the way, and suddenly having to deal with her less-than-friendly brother-in-law reappearing in her life without so much as a by-your-leave. Raistlin well understood the looks she gave him. To her, he was a dark shadow, a spirit who had haunted her husband his entire life, a spectre that, as far as she knew, still sought to drag him down the depths where Raistlin himself resided. And until very recently, she would have been right. The small acts of kindness Raistlin and Dalamar had exhibited by helping with the inn were not enough to convince her otherwise, and why should they be? She was more perceptive than Caramon, more shrewd, and far less prone to trust Raistlin, especially where it concerned her husband. Despite Caramon's assurance that she would come around to Raistlin in time, the archmagus silently doubted it.

As if able to hear Raistlin's thoughts, Tika made her way to the bar and deposited the mostly empty plates onto her serving tray. “Finished with that?” She asked after she had already taken the plates.

“Yes,” Raistlin replied. He began to dig through his money pouch, but Tika stopped him.

“No need,” she said, her voice tight. She looked at Caramon, who still stood behind the bar, drying flatware. “It's on the house.”

“Thank you,” Raistlin said evenly. He was not about to argue with the woman, although she looked like she would have dearly liked him to. 

Tika leaned on the bar, her expression critical, “How is Lady Crysania? Caramon never mentions anything about her.”

“She is the head of the church now,” Raistlin replied, somewhat taken aback by the question. His fingers still curled around the mug of long-cold tea before him. “She has taken on Elistan's role.”

“Yes, but how is she?” Tika insisted.

Raistlin shrugged, “She is well. I have not heard of any illness, nor of any other difficulty she might be having.”

“Oh for the love of—” Tika gave a sigh of frustration, “Have you at least talked with her since you came back?”

“Yes,” Raistlin replied, entirely uncertain what her point was.

“And?” Tika prompted.

Dalamar interceded, “My shalafi has plans to see Lady Crysania when she has the time. The church does, after all, have an interest in our presence in the city. I am sure she will be asked to visit the Tower at some point to ensure we are not a threat to public safety.”

“That's it?” Tika frowned. She gave another sigh, “Well, it's probably in her best interest anyway. She wasn't what I would call a -nice- girl but I thought maybe you would—oh well,” Without further explanation, she lifted her tray and sauntered out of the common room through the kitchen. 

It was only then that Raistlin realized what Tika had been trying to imply. Caramon was blushing and adamantly avoiding his twin's gaze, still busying himself with his work. Dalamar was giving him a coy smile, that ill-humored laughter dancing in his eyes again. 

Raistlin stood, taking the nearby Staff of Magius in hand, and said, “I think we will be leaving now.”

Caramon set down a dish and nodded, “Sure, Raist.” His eyes were large and full of emotion, and it looked to Raistlin as if he would say more, but the big man then fell silent.

“You will thank Tika again for her hospitality,” Raistlin instructed evenly. He added against his better judgment, “And say goodbye to Tasslehoff.”

“I will,” Caramon added with a grim smile. 

Dalamar stood as well, and said, “It was a delight seeing you under more pleasant circumstances, Caramon Majere.” He held out his hand for the warrior to shake, his eyes sharp and unreadable. 

Caramon took his hand unsteadily, “Er, yes, it was.”

“We will see ourselves out,” Raistlin said, already turning away. He paused, halfway facing the common room, hands on the Staff of Magius, his gaze steady. “Goodbye, my brother.”

“Goodbye,” Caramon replied. Raistlin and Dalamar were already halfway to the door of the inn when his twin continued, “Come back soon.”


	14. Even if it Takes a Lifetime

Autumn's leaves had long since been blown from their boughs. Winter had arrived in Palanthas, the city lightly, lovingly coated in a sheet of snow. There was a stillness in the air that hushed the land, a crispness that was both refreshing and calm. Even the Shoikan Grove seemed slumberous. The only noise Raistlin could perceive was the crunch of snow being packed beneath his thick boots, and the distant moan of something un-living beneath one of the Grove's curse-maligned trees. He shivered slightly as he walked. It was late afternoon, and the sun had already disappeared behind the horizon, its echoing rays only partially illuminating the sky. It would be a cold night, this night. Raistlin would have hoped to spend it pleasantly occupied—reading his spellbook next to a roaring fire—but that was not to be. No, instead, he had a certain visitor to deal with, a certain problem to address.

It was time for one final confession.

When he reached the gate, she was already waiting for him. Lady Crysania stood, hands hidden in the voluminous sleeves of her fur-trimmed cloak, her face almost equally obscured by a fur-trimmed hood. Her expression was serene, pale and calm, the tip of her nose and lips stained pomegranate pink with the cold, her gray eyes down-turned with prayer. Did the woman ever stop praying? Raistlin wondered. He supposed it was a quality that was to be expected of the one who was head of the church. Just as he never stopped thinking about the magic, just as his mind was constantly communing with that force, so too was she constantly communing with her god. He wondered if the god ever spoke back. She looked up at his approach.

“Raistlin.”

“Lady Crysania,” Raistlin greeted her, keeping his hands in the folds of his sleeves. The iron gates were far too cold to touch in his weather. “Although you have arrived before me, I believe you have not been waiting long.”

Crysania flashed a surprised smile, warming her otherwise cool face, “You are observant as ever. Yes, I was nearly late for our appointment. The snow has been piled up, and certain roads have been blocked. I had to go far out of my way to reach the Tower.”

“And yet you still managed to be punctual,” Raistlin observed, arching an eyebrow. “And dressed for the weather.”

Crysania blushed, “Yes. It has been bitter cold these last few nights. Oh, but I don't mind remaining outside,” she was hasty to add, “The exercise has warmed me. I'll be more than able to stay here and speak with you as planned.”

“About that,” Raistlin said quietly. He made no motion, spoke no words of magic, yet the gates of the Shoikan Grove began to swing open with a loud creak.

Lady Crysania took a step back, lips parted in shock. When the gates had fully opened, she took a hesitant step forward. “Raistlin,” she began. “Are you—are you certain? The last we spoke, you had made it clear that—”

“I wish for you to visit the Tower, Lady Crysania,” Raistlin interrupted, careful to keep his voice even, professional. He offered her his arm. “Unless you have some objection?”

“No,” Lady Crysania replied, eyes still wide. “None.”

“Then let us proceed,” Raistlin said coolly.

Wordlessly, Crysania placed her arm through the crook of Raistlin's elbow, and the two began to walk through the Shoikan Grove. Lady Crysania flinched as the gates shut behind them with a clang, and Raistlin chuckled.

“Have no fear, Revered Daughter,” he said, “I will not keep you long. You are free to leave whenever you wish.”

“I have no fear, Raistlin,” Crysania replied, although Raistlin could hear a shiver in her tone. “Paladine walks with me, even in this place. Besides,” she turned and faced him with a grim smile, “I have long since ceased to fear you.”

Raistlin was uncertain of how to respond to such a statement. There had been a time when his reputation as the most feared man on Krynn had been a point of pride. He had, until his return from Istar, fully reveled in the terror that he inspired in others, saw it as an extension of his magical prowess, a boon to the ambitions he had plotted to fulfill. Now, though, Raistlin had come to realize that fear was an agent of the Nothing. It preyed on fear, both the fear that Raistlin inspired in others and the fears that festered within his own mind. If such fear were detected, the Nothing would rise from the corner where it had been banished and begin its shackled, haunting limp towards Raistlin's soul. With it came loneliness, emptiness, despair—with it came all the things that comprised Raistlin's nightmares. And he did not want to invite those nightmares in. He did not want to feed the Nothing.

“I would not have you fear me,” Raistlin replied at length. “At the least, not in the way you might once have.”

Lady Crysania eyed him with approbation, “I am glad for that.”

They continued on through the Grove, saying nothing more. Soon, they reached the door to the tower which, just like the gate, swung forward at their approach. Lhyss was there to greet them.

“Good evening, Revered Daughter,” the red-robe beamed up at them. She was holding several rolls of parchment under one arm.

“Good evening,” Crysania replied, her face betraying deep confusion even though her tone was amicable, polite. “I don't believe we have met.”

“Lady Crysania,” Raistlin interceded, “This is one of my assistants, Lhyss Antock. Lhyss, this is Lady Crysania Tarinius, Revered Daughter of Paladine.”

The two women shook hands.

“Your assistant?” Lady Crysania asked, frowning at Raistlin as he ushered her inside and out of the cold. She turned back to the plump woman, “What exactly do you assist him with?”

“I'd be happy to show you, Revered Daughter,” Lhyss smiled. She took Crysania's cloak and handed it to one of the spectral guardians, who silently carried it off into one of the adjacent rooms. Lady Crysania's face paled as she watched it go, but made no remark. In the depths of his hood, Raistlin smirked.

“Do not fret, Lady Crysania, it is only in the cloak room,” he explained with ill-disguised amusement. “You will get it back before you leave.”

“Yes, of course,” she murmured. Crysania's hand went to the medallion of Paladine that was now visible hanging from her neck by a platinum chain. The frock she wore was white and quilted, fitted, but not revealing, and her hair had been left loose to fall down her back in a dark wave. 

“Master, may I show the Revered Daughter to the Scroll Room now?” Lhyss asked, her tone easy, relaxed.

“You may,” Raistlin replied. “Lead the way.”

“Yes, master,” Lhyss bowed. She then grabbed the surprised Crysania by the forearm and began to lead her up the dark, foreboding spiral staircase that led to the rest of the Tower. 

Raistlin followed behind at a distance, relishing how surprised the cleric had been to see a new face in the Tower—and her surprise would only grow.

“Come now, it's only six flights,” he could hear Lhyss's chipper voice echoing down the stairwell. “If my chubby little legs can do it, so can yours.”

Raistlin shook his head, picturing the look of embarrassment that must now be crossing Lady Crysania face, a touch disappointed that he could not see it himself. But no matter. That was not why he invited her here, this night. He would not have made the cleric come to see him just so that he could enjoy her discomfort. No, there was a greater purpose in her presence at the Tower, and it was only a matter of time before that purpose would have to be fulfilled.

Raistlin took his time on the stairwell, his own thin, frail legs no match for the stout, energetic Lhyss. Besides, he had no real desire to parade Lady Crysania about the Tower. His assistants were more than capable of displaying their work without his hovering. Let them have their moment of pride, let them show off the last three months of their labors to one who would not constantly examine and scrutinize their work. He was sure that Lady Crysania would be thoroughly impressed by their efforts, even if Raistlin was not.

Sure enough, when he came to the sixth floor and entered the first door on the left, he saw Lady Crysania leaning over the long table where the diary of Raelanna sat, surrounded by dozens upon dozens of scrolls of parchment, which had given the room its name. Raistlin and Dalamar had retrieved the diary from Lhyss's understandably reluctant brother not long after returning from Solace, and Raistlin had given the journal a detailed reading several times since. He had found many notable entries which may prove to be useful to him, but the details of these would need to be fully examined before Raistlin could determine where to begin with trying to remove his curse.

Thankfully, the archmagus was not to be alone in that task.

Exactly one month since they had parted ways in the Inn of the Last Home in Solace, Dalamar had presented Raistlin with a letter from Lhyss and Dorark, accepting the positions he had offered. Raistlin had arranged for them to be magically transported to the Tower, and the two red-robes began work the very day of their arrival. Since then, they had carefully deconstructed, copied, and reconstructed the diary with a new magical binding that would protect its pages from further decay. They were now in the process of indexing and detailing each of Raelanna's attempts to remove her curse—what components were used, what spells performed, what were the expected results, what were the actual results, what position did the moons take, what time of day or night were the spells performed—hence the great number of scrolls and parchment beginning to pile up within the relatively small study.

Lhyss and Dorark stood to either side of Lady Crysania at the table, looking pleased with themselves as they explained what they had thus far accomplished. The cleric's dark hair cascaded over one shoulder as she leaned down to examine the pages of the original, careful not to touch them, her gaze one of wonder and disbelief.

“Paladine be praised,” Lady Crysania whispered, her gaze still on the book before her. “So you might actually be able to break the curse upon his vision?”

“With luck,” Dorark answered cautiously. His thin lips were set into a frown, “Raelanna herself died before she could remove it, but some of her hypotheses were promising.”

“I am sure someone as gifted as Raistlin could make sense of—” Lady Crysania stopped, noticing that Raistlin himself was standing in the doorway, hood removed, the hourglass eyes in question glinting as he stared at the three of them.  
“I am flattered you have such faith in me, Revered Daughter,” his lips quirked upward.

Crysania stood up straight, a faint blush visible on her cheeks, “You proclaim to be the most powerful mage in existence, do you not? Who else but you -could- accomplish such a feat?”

“True,” Raistlin conceded. He smirked, “Let us hope there is none other. Now, if you would be so kind, Revered Daughter, I believe you had, in your letter, expressed a concern over my line of magical study?”

“I did, Raistlin,” Lady Crysania replied earnestly, “But I am pleasantly surprised to see that it revolves around breaking the curse of Raelanna. This is nothing that the church would be concerned with. Quite the contrary.”

“Ah, but the curse is, for the moment, only the concern of my assistants,” Raistlin countered. “Myself and my apprentice concern ourselves with another line of study.”

“Oh? If that is the case, I would be most interested in seeing what else you have been up to,” Crysania said, making her way to the door where Raistlin was waiting. She turned back towards the red-robes as she left, smiling, “Thank you for showing me your work, and may Paladine bless your endeavor. It is truly a noble one.”

“Thank you, Revered Daughter,” Lhyss smiled back at her, giggling and exchanging looks with Dorark, whose dark features had flushed crimson with her praise.

“Yes, you have our thanks,” he muttered, gaze averted.

Raistlin reached across Crysania and pulled the door to the Scroll Room closed, giving his assistants a knowing look as he did so, which set Lhyss to giggling all over again. Her peals of laughter could be heard even after they had ascended several steps.

“Come, Lady Crysania,” Raistlin led her up the spiraling stair. “The laboratory is this way. Be careful that you do not trip. It would be a long way down for you to fall.”

“I see,” Crysania gulped. She climbed the stairs almost hugging the wall, both hands running along the blocks of stone, even though they were smooth and unlikely to provide her with any leverage. Raistlin would have offered her his arm, but the stair was barely wide enough to walk two abreast, and he had a feeling she was more comfortable ascending in single file. He had considered, briefly, using his magic to transport her, such as he had in the past, but from the sixth floor it was only four more flights until they reached the laboratory. Besides, a little fear would be good for the cleric, and if she could not fear Raistlin, she could, at the least, leave this night with a healthy fear of the Tower itself.

They arrived at the laboratory, the door to which was magically enchanted shut. Raistlin quickly dispelled the wards around it, murmuring the counter-spells with ease, his fingers brushing the surface of the great oak door as he worked. Once he felt the vibration of the last ward cease, he announced his presence.

“Dalamar,” he called from the outside of the door. “I am about to enter, and I bring Lady Crysania with me.”

“Yes, shalafi,” Dalamar's voice carried through from inside. 

Raistlin opened the door slowly and passed through it, gesturing for Lady Crysania to follow. The laboratory was brightly lit; a magical beam illuminated the large stone table that served as the laboratory's main work station. Placed at the center of that table was what appeared to be a box made of some kind of clear, iridescent material, not unlike glass, which seemed to be holding something circular and green inside. Dalamar stood behind the stone table, poised, arms folded in the sleeves of his robes, seemingly awaiting their arrival.

“You do, of course, remember my apprentice Dalamar,” Raistlin said with a gesture towards the dark elf, who bowed in turn.

“Yes, of course,” Lady Crysania replied before her eyes fixed on the small box, the surface of which shimmered and swirled as they watched. “Is this the object of your study?”

“It is,” Raistlin nodded. He placed one hand on the back of Crysania's shoulder, and gently urged her closer to the table. “Observe the box closely, Revered Daughter, and tell me what you see.”

Lady Crysania began to lean over the large table, her expression uncertain. 

“Have no fear, Revered Daughter,” Dalamar assured her from the other side of the table. “It will not harm you.”

Bending almost double, her face inches from the box's faintly shimmering surface, Crysania leaned in further, her gaze questioning, confused for a moment before her eyes widened in shock. Raistlin, standing behind her, one hand still placed gently on her back, could see nothing of this, but, by Dalamar's bemused expression, he could well imagine her look of surprise.

“It's a...cabbage?” She asked as if embarrassed to even suggest such a thing.

“It is,” Raistlin said evenly. “Go on.”

“It is an extremely fresh looking cabbage,” Crysania continued, still uncomprehending. Raistlin walked around to the table's side, watching her as she peered through the iridescent box at the leafy, sturdy vegetable. “But I don't understand,” she continued, turning her gaze to him.“How do you have such a cabbage in the dead of winter? Harvest was months ago, and this looks like it was just unearthed.”

“That,” Raistlin smirked, “would take quite some time to explain.” He looked at Dalamar, and his apprentice continued.

“Throughout the summer,” the dark elf began, “we were working on magic of a...less favorable kind, in which the preservation of human bodies was paramount.”

Crysania made a face, her nose wrinkling, “Necromancy?”

“Yes, Revered Daughter, necromancy,” Dalamar answered, nonplussed. If anything, there was a hint of mirth in his dark eyes. “But when we returned from our visit to Solace, my shalafi had the idea of using the same the magic that kept our subjects fresh to keep other things from decomposing as well. Vegetation was not our first idea.”

“But it was one of many things we tried to preserve,” Raistlin continued, his voice a rasp. “And it is one of the things that has taken to the magic best. Would you be able to guess, Revered Daughter, how old this particular head of cabbage is?”

Crysania shook her head, “I do not know. Two months?”

“Three months,” Raistlin replied. “It will be 100 days tomorrow, and it may be 100 days more before it starts to wilt and rot.”  
“But Raistlin this is wonderful!” Lady Crysania exclaimed. She turned to him, eyes warm and exhilarated. “Do you realize what this could mean for the poor of Palanthas? For all of Krynn? If something like this could be reproduced on a larger scale—”

“The implications are indeed wondrous,” Raistlin interrupted in a cautionary tone. He paused momentarily as a brief fit of coughing seized him. When he continued, his tone was sharp, “But we do not yet know if the food kept in stasis is safe to eat, nor do we know what other things it may keep.”

“Yes, but it is marvelous nonetheless,” Lady Crysania was looking up at him with undisguised admiration, face flushed, eyes wide and lovely as they stood, close, beside the large stone table. Raistlin hastily took a step away from her and nearer to Dalamar, who seemed to be watching the exchange with a half-smirk that did not quite reach his eyes. Lady Crysania continued, “Why have the white-robe wizards not been able to produce something like this? The clerics of Paladine have worked closely with many of that order, and not once have they been able to produce something like this.”

“A follower of Solinari is unlikely to have the ability to use such a spell,” Raistlin explained, composing himself once more. “While it is not sinister in this particular application, the magic we used to create the box of stasis comes from spells that would be considered unsavory by many.”

Lady Crysania frowned, a small wrinkle appearing appearing between her brows. “And thus does Paladine remind me of the necessity of evil.”

Raistlin gave her a cold smile, “Perhaps. In any case, I suspect that Dalamar and myself will need years of study to assess if the box of stasis may be used to combat the problem of hunger in Palanthas. Do not forget,” he reminded her coolly, “it may not work at all.”

“I understand,” Crysania nodded. “But I am pleased all the same. The church will certainly not object to this either.”

Raistlin could not help but smirk, “I should hope not.”

 

After another quarter hour observing the box of stasis, Raistlin showed Lady Crysania to his study, leaving Dalamar to complete his night's work. Raistlin had been pleased at the cleric's reaction to the experiment, but he had expected nothing less. Her approbation was obvious in her every move, every word, every expression—as was her surprise. It was irritating, in its own way, for Raistlin did not deserve the praise she would heap on him when she returned to the Temple of Paladine to report what she had seen. Raistlin had not set out to feed the poor. If he had wanted to do that, he would have simply used the Tower's deep coffers to contribute to the temple's effort long ago. No, Raistlin had only realized that he could use the stasis spell on vegetation after several failed attempts at trying to use it to create a new form of life—attempts that had yielded only sub-par results. The impoverished and hungry souls of Palanthas were fortunate that Raistlin was so inept in that particular field. Had he been able to use that magic for its intended purpose, he would not have begun to experiment with the effects of the box of stasis on something as innocuous as cabbage.

He was not naive enough to think that he could single-handedly cure the entirety of Krynn of the disease of hunger—although it seemed that Crysania did think him capable of this—but he could contribute to its eradication in a major way. Besides, the complicated magic and esoteric spells that kept the stasis box working required Raistlin's utmost attention. Between those and overseeing his assistants' work on Raelanna's diary, Raistlin's mind simply had no time to dwell on the Nothing, no energy to whisper to it, no way to make it shamble out of its corner, chains dragging on the ground like some withered shade—and in those moments when it did, in those moments when an errant thought or careless word roused the Nothing from its corner and caused it to advance upon him—Raistlin was ready.

To oppose the Nothing, Raistlin had developed a Something. 

Raistlin described this Something as the warm feeling that bloomed whenever he shared a look with Dalamar, or heard the elf's laughter, or caught him staring distractedly over the top of his spellbook at his shalafi. It was the rush of excitement whenever he discovered some new connection in the spells and research of Raelanna, brought to him by Lhyss and Dorark's many hours of hard work. It was the bubble of warmth he felt whenever he received a letter from Caramon, which, although Raistlin often read these with trepidation, never failed to reassure Raistlin that he had made the right choice in not cutting his twin out entirely from his life. 

The Something was what he felt when he went for the occasional morning stroll through the streets of Palanthas, observing the foliage with a keen eye that he hoped would, someday, be freed from its debilitating curse. It was the dark chuckle that escaped his throat when he saw children peering at him from behind the skirts of their mothers, who tried to actively drag them away from the archmagus as he rambled the city, and it was the less-than-amused expression he wore when he opened letters from Tasslehoff Burrfoot, which always contained some dubious trinket or other and were almost incomprehensible to decipher.

It was not happiness, not quite. It was only a Something.

But it was slowly causing the Nothing to fade.

After making sure that Lady Crysania was comfortable, in her plush armchair, glass of wine close at hand, Raistlin returned to his own seat behind his desk, propping his elbows up on its surface, forming a peak with his long, thin fingers.

“Lady Crysania,” he began in a soft voice. “I did not ask you here this night to show you my studies on the curse of Raelanna, nor did I ask you here to see the box of stasis.”

Crysania, who indeed looked quite at ease in the overstuffed chair, her fingers entwined around the stem of her wine glass, gave a small smile, “I know, Raistlin.”

The archmagus raised an eyebrow, “You know? Forgive me, Revered Daughter, but I find that unlikely.”

“Do you?” Crysania asked, almost bitterly. “My god and I do commune, Raistlin, and sometimes,” her voice was low, a whisper, “I am fortunate enough to be given the vision of the gods.” She closed her eyes half in rapture, half in reverence, and exhaled deeply. “Paladine has told me that a great feat was accomplished in Istar. A great power, a great force for good was able to turn you from your path of destruction, the entire course of history shifted in the process—and Paladine has told me,” she opened her eyes suddenly, full of sorrow, “that it was not me.”

“I have also told you that it was not you,” Raistlin replied, unable to stop the smirk tugging at his lips. “And you did not believe me.”

“I know,” Crysania let her head drop slightly. “I was foolish. Blind. I only believed what I wanted, and I wanted so desperately to be your savior. But then,” she lifted her gaze, humble yet determined, her cheeks flushed, “When Elistan died, and I began to bear his burden, I realized that I had been in the wrong. You did not need a savior.”

He smirked, “And what did I need?”

“Time,” Crysania said simply. “And a guiding hand. Not a crusader of truth, not a self-righteous soldier. Not a cleric who could not see past her own ambitions.”

“I am pleased you have come to see that,” Raistlin agreed.

“I have,” Crysania replied gravely. “And I am truly sorry for what happened, for what almost happened.”

“Which was?”

Again she blushed and averted her gaze with a stern look, “I would have used you, just as you used me. I would have claimed you as my greatest conquest, not by flesh, but by soul. I would have held your spirit—pure, white, cleansed of all its evil—aloft for all the world to see. It would have been my crown jewel. It would have been my prized possession.”

Raistlin smiled then, a true smile, one which came from some deep, long-forgotten place that Raistlin only half knew existed. It felt odd even using those muscles. It almost hurt, so much were they disused.

“Is something the matter?” Crysania shifted in her chair, one hand fussing with the folds of her frock, apparently startled by the unusual expression.

“No, Revered Daughter,” Raistlin said, the strange smile fading. “I am relieved and surprised to hear you admit such things.”

“You are not the first to have heard such a confession,” Lady Crysania said softly, touching lightly the medallion of Paladine at her neck. “Although you may be the last.”

“I could say the same for you, Crysania,” Raistlin replied.

“What do you mean?”

He leaned forward again, forearms resting on the desk. He had long prepared for his moment. He had puzzled over its execution ever since his return from Istar, and now, when faced with the challenge of divulging the truth to the one whom he most feared to divulge it to, Raistlin knew he would not hesitate. This was it. The culmination of his decision to leave the path he had taken, the apogee of his struggle to survive against the Nothing.

And Raistlin knew he would defeat it. Perhaps not this night, perhaps not any night soon. It was not the kind of thing that could be defeated all at once. It was strong, born of things terrible and dire. It had been created by Raistlin's own mind, forged in the memories of the great loneliness that once would have awaited him, made real by doubt and fear. It was strong. But Raistlin was stronger. He would face it, and he would fight it. He would watch it, observe it, learn its tactics. He would not lose, would not give in. Even if it took a lifetime. He would learn. He would learn.

And he would defeat it.

“Paladine did not reveal to you who it was that turned me from my own destruction,” Raistlin asked. “Did he?”

“No,” Crysania replied. “He did not.”

“It is an incredible tale, I must admit,” Raistlin continued with a small sigh. “I wonder if you would have believed it even if he had.”

“I'm sure I would have,” Crysania protested, scandalized. “And I would believe it,” she hesitated, her eyes dark, full of emotion, “if you would tell me.”

Raistlin gave a small smile, “Would you?”

“Yes.”

“I suppose, then, that I must oblige you,” he paused, taking a deep breath, before he continued. “It all started with a time-traveling kender...”

 

-END-

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for your support on my first fic! I've enjoyed reading all your comments and appreciate you all taking the time to write them. It's been quite a journey since the first chapter, hasn't it? (Our boy has grown so much!) Did you ever think we'd get here?
> 
> I may, one day, write a sequel to explore some more of this AU I've created, but I feel these fourteen chapters cover what I initially intended to cover. Let me know if anyone is interested in more.
> 
> The title of this chapter comes from another Devin Townsend Project song called Supercrush! from the album Addicted. It's a huge mood for this last chapter and a major inspiration for the fic as a whole.
> 
> That's all I've got for now. Hope you all enjoyed :D


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